


Where light is blind and shadows dissolve

by ThisGoldenAfternoon



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Abusive Jiemma, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Child Abuse, Gore, Horror, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Poor Sting, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rogue to the rescue, Sad SaberBabes in love, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-09 13:17:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 130,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12277254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisGoldenAfternoon/pseuds/ThisGoldenAfternoon
Summary: Sting is only twelve years old, when the darkness that taints some hearts of men reaches out to stain his radiant light.Trying to break his fear of the dark, Jiemma resolves to torture and abuse, and in the end, rather breaks his heart and mind.Rogue tries to help, but has to figure out how, since he can only guess what their cruel, spiteful Master has done to his beloved friend.Thus, their first steps into adolescence are littered with violence and growing up happens all too fast.Years later, when their hearts finally understand, what they're lacking and hidden feelings come full-circle, Jiemma's shadow still reaches far enough to darken what is shyly trying to blossom in secrecy.But some wounds even time can't heal, and while Sting's heart won't stop bleeding, Rogue still holds his shards together with a lover's tender hands.As their bodies slowly seek out one another, the White Dragon Slayer ardously claws his way out of the blackness, to reclaim the innocent, radiant light of his.





	1. Die Hand die verletzt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedragonsarecats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedragonsarecats/gifts).



> Hey there, this fic is somewhat of an experiment, atm.  
> I guess it'll be part of something bigger, maybe together with "Winter's light" and some other Stingue-Fics of mine, but for now I'll keep it as a stand-alone.  
> As the tags suggest, this is far from fluffy (for now at least) and might or might not trigger someone who's sensitive to gore, violence and implications of sexual/verbal/mental abuse.  
> Please turn back if that applies to you or proceed with caution.
> 
> So, here we go: Sting's neverending nightmare Part 1/??
> 
> (Btw: Chapter title is german and means: the hand, that's offending (or violating) and is stolen from one of my favourite X-Files episodes))

“... and such a brave little thing, he was! He seemed to be trembling with fear himself, and he still ventured into the dark pit, only to help us deal with those dreadful wolf-rats. We can't thank your guild enough, Master Jiemma!”  
Even before the kind Lady finishes her sentence, Sting knows that he's screwed.  
The way Jiemma's enormous hand fastens its already painful grip around his arm, until it is nothing but torturous and bruising is more than enough to clue him in on what he's to expect once they make it back to the guild hall.  
He is twelve now, a capable Dragon Slayer; but he's also a member of Sabertooth and he has learned the hard way, not to talk back to the Master. Not when he was in a bad mood; not ever.  
So he lets himself get dragged along, always trying his best to control his breathing, for the aura surrounding the brute oafish form that is their Master Jiemma is so thick with malice and hatred that it might make him gag any minute.  
He is well aware, that this would be his untimely end, so he suppresses the choke rising in his throat as good as he can, all the while forcing his muscles into obedience. If he stumbled into his Master now, he'd beat him to within an inch of his life.

Their way home isn't that long, but it feels like miles upon miles for Sting's fear-juggled mind.  
He is well aware of what's to come, and he dreads it on a visceral level, a thundering, vile fear, that is deeply engraved into his bones by now.  
So when Jiemma whirls around and sends Sting crashing into the opposite wall, there is no way for him to muffle the miserable sob rising in his throat.  
He cowers down, arm shielding his face, as their Master draws closer, but the force of the humongous hands throws him back anyway and leaves him with ringing ears and a thick trail of blood trickling down his chin.  
“No more, please! No more!” His mind silently pleads, but by now the boy knows better, than to word his thoughts aloud.  
Jiemma is towering over his shrinking form, eyes aglow with violence, and booms: “Who told you to go there and sully the name of our guild? Who told you to “tremble with fear”? You're a member of Sabertooth and I expect you to act that way! I won't tolerate such a pathetic display of weakness in the ranks of my guild! Do you hear me?”  
Sting is still crouched down, unsure if his shaking limbs would carry his weight, and since his voice is brittle and unsteady with held back sobs, he simply nods his head.  
“DO YOU HEAR ME?? ANSWER ME, YOU RUNT!” Jiemma's voice is deafening, but it shocks the boy's vocal cords into obedience. “Yes, Master. I- I understand. I... I will... It won't happen again.”  
“Enough with the whining! And speak clearly when you're talking to me! I won't stand a stuttering cretin in my guild!”  
The kick aimed at his ribs takes Sting completely by surprise, so he has no chance to shield himself from the brunt of the impact whatsoever and gets flung right back into the wall. 

His vision blurs, darkness closing in on him, as every last bit of air is forced out of his lungs, leaving his skin crawling and tingling.  
Terror rises up in his chest now that he feels his body slowly backing away from him, consciousness dwindling, and only the crazed mantra of “no, no, no, no, don't pass out, he's gonna kill me” his mind screeches, keeps him from slipping into the void.  
“... feet.” Jiemma's voice is muted, tuning in and out like a broken radio, and Sting quickly shakes his head hard to dispel the fog - forcing their Master to repeat himself was never a good idea.  
“Get to your feet, you piece of trash! It's high time you finally overcame this childish fear of yours.”  
As soon as the blonde has finally staggered to his feet, a rough hand fists into his hair and drags him along mercilessly, as he lets out a sinister laugh.  
“I'll show you, that the darkness is nothing to be afraid of. Just you wait, you little wimp. When I'm done with you the dark will seem like a save haven... I'll teach you true fear.”  
With his mind pain-crazed and hazy, Sting didn't even realize where he'd been ushered to, but as the sturdy wooden door, covered in heavy studs, enters his field of vision, he comes dangerously close to fainting.  
He'd never been behind those walls, and yet he's well aware, that the room harbors nothing but dread and despair. Anyone in Sabertooth knows. It's a place where members get dragged to when they loose a fight, fail a mission badly or otherwise attract their Master's raging wrath more than usual.  
Upon return most of them sported dire injuries, some quit the guild without a single word of farewell, while others looked no worse for wear but from that day onward somehow seemed skittish and hollow, the smell of fear clinging to them like a second skin.  
No one ever spoke of what had happened to them. Mostly because it was forbidden by an unwritten law, but secondly because non of the members were close enough to one another to share this kind of experience.  
Except for Sting. In this harsh, cold place he is the only one blessed with a kindred soul to turn to, someone he came to know so intimatley, who's friendship he treasures so much, that the sole thought of somehow not being able to return to their shared room is more threatening than any horrors that Jiemma might have ready for him.  
So, for the sake of a raven-haired boy with warm red eyes and a smooth, calm voice, he reigns his failing body in and steels himself for whatever nightmares await him. 

The door opens and Sting only manages a quick glance around, before everything is cloaked in impenetrable darkness. He gets shoved inside and falls to his knees with a heavy, painful thud and the door slams shut, leaving him in a pitch-black nothingness, too thick and oppressive to be natural.  
The muffled voice of his Master drafts through the silence, a sadistic, evil grin laced into the words.  
“We'll start slowly... make yourself at home, Sting. Be patient, good things will come to those who wait. I'll be back for you.”  
And with that Sting is all alone in the dark, in a plain empty room that is covered in damp straw, cobwebs and grime.  
He isn't too sure, if that's the usual state of the place, or if Jiemma has it specially prepared for the respective prisoner and he doesn't really want to dwell on the topic all that much, but his mind is already restless and keeps on wandering.  
The first minutes he tries very hard to make out any of his surroundings, but soon it becomes clear, that his eyes won't get accustomed to this kind of darkness and he just lets himself fall to the ground.  
'It's not that bad' , he keeps telling himself. 'We've been camping in a cave that was much scarier...'  
'But Rogue had been with you that time!' A little voice at the back of his head mumbles.  
'And Rogue can always keep the darkness at bay!' The voice was right, with his friend by his side, Sting's fear usually faded into nonexistence, giving way to a warm feeling of tranquility.  
But now trapped down here with black covering his vision and numbing his ears, there's only ice-cold fear churning deep inside his guts.  
“Well, but I could fend off the dark on my own as well!” He doesn't even notice he's answing the tiny voice aloud by now, and it doesn't really matter altogether since no one's going to hear him anyway.  
“I mean, I'm the White Dragon Slayer... Bet ya didn't think of that...”  
So he lets his magic unfurl around him, already relishing in the bright warmth, when a jolt of raging hot electricity runs through his body, making him seize and cry out in agony.  
It's over as soon as it's began- the pain fades and with it every last ounce of magic energy Sting had left. A tiny spark lingers in his palm for a moment, so small it might have also been one of the stars dancing in front of his eyes, then it fizzles and is gone.  
Suddenly Jiemma's voice roars through the room “What do you take me for? An idiot? Did you really think I'd let you sit that one out by lightening up the room? You damn, conceited brat, let's see how you like this.”  
The air is changing out of nowhere. As if someone had infused it with lead, it's too thick and heavy to breathe, it hurts; with every breath a little more, and a weight settles crushingly on Sting's chest.  
He feels hands grappling at his neck, slowly fastening their grip, until the dense air won't fit into his wind pipe anymore and his whole body starts burning. He is still dizzy and faint from the deprivation of magic, thus the only thing he can do to save himself is to reach weakly for the hands on his neck- just to have his fingers grasp at nothing but thin air. Still, the pressure increases and Sting looses all feeling in his body, brain shutting down, thoughts zooming in on one thing: terror. Pure, mind-eating terror.  
But before his consciousness wanes, a last dreamlike image passes his unseeing eyes.  
Black strands, ruby gaze. Home.  
After that Sting is swallowed by merciful oblivion.

When he comes to the air has thankfully gone back to being breathable again, and he gasps and wheezes until sweet oxygen floods his brain and the haze in his mind is clearing. His limbs come back to life in an agonizing fit of pins and needles that seems to drag on forever, but eventually this, too, subsides and he is once again, left with nothing more than his heartbeat thundering in his ears.  
That is- until he notices something crawling around in the shadows. Something nameless and horrifying, if the sounds were anything to go by. A damp, ragged breath, a disgusting scraping and slithering, as if an oversized, grimy maggot was creeping around, drawing closer.  
Sting tries to scurry away from the sound, but suddenly he can hear a second one right behind him, and another one somewhere to his left and all at once they're everywhere.  
Moments later he finds himself surrounded by unseen, unfathomable things; his magic is gone and his body is still sluggish and stiff from lying on the cold hard ground for god knows how long.  
A never known helplessness crushes down on him and keeps him frozen in place by an unyielding force.  
But when the first monster touches his hand, its skin cold, slime-covered and foul he bats is away with all the strength he can muster. The thing is thrown back a few feet, but it doesn't seem wounded and wriggles right back towards the boy.  
Sting knows he can't put up much of a fight, but he still tries, as more and more of the maggot-things start brushing past his body.  
His resistance lasts about thirty seconds.  
Somehow the slime seems to numb his muscles and soon enough he can't do anything else but powerlessly endure them crawling all over his body, mouth opened in a silent scream.  
The things cover nearly every inch of his form, one even manages to wriggle its way underneath his shirt, rolling around lazily as if basking in the warmth of his flesh.  
He feels the urge to vomit building up in his stomach, gag after gag rising in his throat with every jerking move the slick heaps of dead flesh leave etched into his memory. But right before his stomach spills its contents, the haunting is gone.  
The life returns to his trembling limbs and after a while the dry heaving lets up as well.  
Sting sits shell-shocked and quivering, tears running down his cheeks, and he keeps rocking back and forth, as his hands fumble feverishly at his chest, his face, everywhere he'd felt the maggots only moments ago.  
But he doesn't find any traces of slime what so ever. The only reminiscence of the nightmare is the need to scrub off the grime and the nauseating feeling of somehow being violated.  
He doesn't even notice, he's started biting his nails until he tastes blood.


	2. A spark that blooms in blackness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet visitor. A moment of comfort. All received and lost within a single heartbeat. And the air gets cold and colder, after the short wave of warmth had burned itself out.  
> Still in the dark, Sting shivers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though the sweet sunshine-child gets to have a little moment of comfort, he's still far from escaping the cruelty Jiemma has in store for him.

The silence is gnawing at his ear drums with greedy fangs. In his secluded bubble of eternal midnight, where all sound is muted and the darkness presses solidly against his eyeballs, Sting almost feels afloat.  
The concept of time is slowly lost to him, for his pulse has become far too unsteady to help him measure the minutes and hours of his confinement. His limbs feel numb with cold and exhaustion, even lack the energy to keep on trembling, allowing the chill to seep into his body.  
His consciousness has retreated far into his mind, searching for some place warm and bright, where he could see the open sky and drink in the sunlight.  
A place where his hand would find another one whenever reaching out, and the sensation of a familiar heartbeat close to him, that never failed to calm his nerves.  
But whenever his imagination nearly manages to conjure the feeling of safety, serenity, and all those things belonging to carefree days spent in a brighter past; he'd be pulled back by a shiver coursing through his body, or a drip-dropping splash of water falling from the ceiling.  
Back to the crushing embrace of darkness and the foul stench of dead flesh ingrained into his nose.  
The memory might have brought tears to his eyes all over again, but he seems to have spent them all, so only a dry burning remains as he stares blankly into the vast space.  
There is nothing here to keep his thoughts occupied, so they're ceaselessly circling around the sickening sensation of cold, mindless creatures wandering lecherously over his skin.  
He's trapped in a downward spiral that just won't stop draining his sanity, leaving him to the nauseating aftermath of an adrenaline-shock with his nerves buzzing and pulse racing.  
So, even though his body demands rest, exhaustion turning every muscle into lead, sleep has never been farther away than at this very moment.  
The only thing he can do is curl into a tight little ball and wait. To be released from this nightmare or pass out from hypothermia and distress. Which ever comes first; he doesn't really care any more.

All of a sudden his head snaps up.  
An icy draft, that hadn't been there before, had just wafted through his hair, causing shivers to run down his spine. Something seems to be stirring in the shadows, Sting can almost feel them swirling and churning, as they give way to a solid form.  
Something's in here with him and the mere realization has the boy frozen in fear.  
'No, not again... Please, dear god, don't... just don't do this to me again...'  
He pleads to any deity that might be listening, but not a single word passes his lips, as panic fastens its hold on his body.  
Instead Sting goes perfectly still; limbs petrified and breathing strained, he only stares into the darkness with blind eyes and listens.  
The sound of footsteps identifies the intruder as a human being, but that does nothing to ease Sting's urge to lash out at the thing and shout his lungs out, as it draws closer until it's right next to him.  
He already feels a scream building in his throat, a hot, scraping sensation, like swallowing a shard of glass, when a hand suddenly flies out to cover his mouth, the fingers as small and soft as his, and the grip surprisingly gentle.  
He could bite them if he tried, maybe even draw blood... The thought sends a jolt of fear driven excitement through his bones.  
But before panic could get the better of him, a pair of lips grazes his temple, tiny puffs of air tickling his ear, as a familiar voice breathes a soft, low whisper against his brow.  
“Shh, it's just me. It's okay, it's okay.” Sting almost sobs, as realization dawns upon him, dispelling the frost from his limbs and leaving him boneless and heavy.  
“I'm gonna take my hand away now, but you gotta promise, not to scream, you hear me?” Sting gives an eager nod, a never known relief flooding his body as the calming presence of his friend washes over his quivering form, efficiently erasing the tremors.  
“Rogue!” He croaks, trying very hard to keep his voice from cracking. “What are you doing here? How did you get in here?”  
He senses movement, measured and cautiously and in the next second Rogue drops down right beside him, hands feeling around, until they find Sting's. The violent flinch that follows the rather familiar touch more than startles him, but as he is about to withdraw, Sting quickly catches his retreating wrist and laces their fingers together on his own accord.  
His skin is icy, clam and just won't stop twitching, so Rogue inches a little closer and eases his arm around the hunched shoulders, securely wrapping Sting up in his cape.  
“C'mer, you're freezing, man!” he coaxes and soon enough Sting all but crumbles into the patiently waiting arms, head shyly coming to rest in the crook of Rogue's neck.  
The Shadow Dragon Slayer rests his cheek lightly against the blond crown and wills the life back into stiff, numb limbs by rubbing his hands fiercely over the other boy's arms.  
“You weren't in our room when I got back from training.” He states simply after some moments of evaluating the whole situation. Sting hums a little sound of approval, but otherwise stays quiet, what cues Rogue to continue.  
“I thought you hadn't returned from the mission yet, but then I saw Jiemma practically pounding Dobengal into the dirt- He was so fucking angry, I... “ He trails off, shaking his head in silence, but after a soft little nudge from Sting's elbow, keeps on talking. His voice suddenly sounds much softer, as compassion worms it's way into his speech.  
“I had no idea, where to look for you! And I thought: What if he'd expelled you from the guild? What if he hurt you so bad, that...”  
Once again Rogue can't finish the sentence, but the way his fingers suddenly dig into Sting's shoulder, protectively and oh-so-warm, is more than enough to fill in the blank.  
“I tried following your scent, but it was everywhere and nowhere at the same time and I ended up running down the same hallways time and again, before I overheard Minerva asking about your mission. And Jiemma told her, that he'd thrown you into the pit... and....”  
Rogue takes a staggering breath and fastens his hold on Sting a little more, before adding: “His voice gave me the creeps... It was... just so... I don't even know how to describe it... It was dripping with scorn and the way he laughed, kinda told me, that he had something horrible in store for ya... I came here as fast as I could, but... but...”  
Another deep breath as he prepares for the inevitable, obvious question.  
“I'm too late, ain't I? Something's already happened, right?”  
There is such an amount of concern laced into Rogue's voice, that it's almost impossible to bear, and Sting cannot bring himself to burden him even further by revealing what took place behind these walls.  
Not when the blackness is only being warded off by the thin layer of fabric that is Rogue's mantle.  
The memory is yet too fresh, the wounds it ripped still bleeding and he feels sullied, tainted, so he couldn't stand the idea, of his friend knowing just how pathetic his defences had been, how his hands had trembled with fear.  
How, in the end he just let those horrible things happen, without much of a fight. 

That's why he forces himself to shake his head and even contorts his face in something akin to an achingly broken smile, while he hopes desperately, that his voice wouldn't betray his true emotions right now.  
“Nah, I've just been locked up in here for quite a while now and... you know, I've never liked the darkness very much.” If his stomach hadn't started convulsing with nausea, Sting might have even been proud of how normal and steady his voice came out, but like this, it takes all the willpower he's got, not to falter and throw up.  
“Dude, that's like - the biggest understatement I've ever heard of, you know? You “Don't like the darkness very much?” “ Rogue's tone is light, maybe even a bit mocking, but there's affection and sympathy woven tightly into his words, as he adds:  
“You don't have to pretend, that you're not scared for me. We've been friends since forever and I had to comfort you so many times... I just know this is freaking you out. I can feel that you're shaking, you know?”  
“Sh-shut-t up. 'm ju-just c-cold.” As if to prove a point, Sting's teeth all of a sudden start clattering violently with every word, so Rogue wraps his coat a little tighter around the quivering body next to him and curses under his breath.  
“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.” He nudges the White Dragon Slayer gently, but stalls in his tracks, as the action elicits an outcry of pain.  
“He's beaten you up again, didn't he?” Rogue's voice suddenly comes as a vicious growl, and even though Sting can't see it, he knows that those warm red eyes are now ablaze with fury.  
“One day Imma kill this bastard, I swear!” It's Sting's time now, to cover the other's mouth hastily.  
“Shh, are you insane? He might hear you! Don't you think he'd be able to listen to what's going on in here, somehow? What if...”  
As if to prove Sting right, Jiemma's voice is suddenly thundering throughout the whole guild hall, filling the air with a malign, dreadful static.  
“ ROGUE!!!!!”  
“Oh no!”, Sting whispers, throat tight with fear. The Shadow Dragon Slayer only sets his jaw in determination, but otherwise doesn't even flinch.  
“ROGUE!!”  
“Go!” Sting urges his friend, even though every fibre of his being wants him to stay, wants to keep his warmth, his comforting presence selfishly by his side.  
“No way! I'm not leaving you behind in here. I don't care...”  
“CHENEY!!!! GET YOUR SORRY ASS HERE RIGHT NOW!!!!! THERE'S WORK FOR YOU!!! CHENEY!!!!”  
“Please!!” Sting is pleading with him now, despair spreading through his guts.  
“I'll be fine, I promise. I... I can do this. But...”  
His voice is dangerously close to breaking and he has to force it back into obedience, the lie weighing heavy on his mind, before he continues.  
“But... please don't make me worry about you, too. This is what I couldn't do right now. I might endure the darkness, but only if I know, that when this is over, you'll be waiting for me back in our room. And then we'll start reading the book I got us in town, today. Just...”  
Now his breath hitches and almost comes as a sob, but Rogue seems to understand him nevertheless, for he actually draws back, prepared to get to his feet.

As soon as his arms fall away from Sting's shoulders, his body already misses the soothing feeling of heat, the distant rhythm of Rogue's pulse and his warm breath on his hair.  
“ROGUE!! GET THE FUCK HERE! RIGHT NOW OR YOU'RE GONNA REGRET HAVING EVEN BEEN BORN!!!”  
He is bracing himself for the inevitable harsh, cold silence that'll be swallowing him up once again any second now; but to his surprise, the other one leans back in, hands capturing Sting's once more, as he whispers:  
“All right. I'll go. But don't you worry, I'll be back for you, as soon as possible. Wait for me, you hear me?” He rests his forehead ardently against Sting's before continuing  
“Be brave! Just for a little longer! ”  
And Sting, completely dumbfounded by the tender gesture, just squeezes those warm hands and breathes: “I will. Please be safe!” He feels the nod against his brow and then a soft swirl of shadows tousles his hair and their hands slide apart. Rogue is gone, leaving behind nothing but his earthen scent and rapidly cooling darkness.  
Sting's facade caves and crumbles.


	3. Am Abend, wenn die Glocken Frieden läuten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorrow, anxiety, pain and despair- Rogue has experienced them all and more, as he fights, endures, worries and waits.  
> For Sting to return to his side, bright eyes and radiant smile dazzling away the pitch black despair, while the dying sun wanes and bleeds out across the sky.  
> But can a light still pervade the darkness, once it has been defiled?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, you guys, guess what? I'm still alive, but dying with regret, to have kept you waiting for so long.  
> I'd been on a longer vacation without much time to write. But now I'm back and finally managed to update the story.  
> The title is once again german and is taken from the expressionistic poem "Verfall" ("decay"), by Georg Trakl (my favourite writer by far) and translates to "At dusk, as the bells are tolling with peace..." or "In the evening, when the bells ring peace..." (The latter one is the official translation, the first one is my own, so chose your favourite as you please :-) )  
> Hope you enjoy and if so, maybe leave a tiny-teeny comment to make my day :-)

The warm atmosphere of the evening is already succumbing to the first nightly chills, a gentle breeze rustling through the branches outside of the windows, and Rogue's relentless pacing is carving a pattern of worry and restlessness into the thick carpet of their bedroom.  
Hours have passed since he had been forced to leave Sting behind in this black pit of utter despair and Jiemma had done a disgustingly good job in keeping him from returning to the blonde's side ever since.

Though he had left Sting's prison in a hurry, slipping through the countless shadows darkening their guild in mere seconds, a rough, oversized hand had sent him flying into a table more than ten feet away, as soon as he'd skidded to a shaky halt in the main hall.  
With blood trickling down his temple and white noise buzzing hazily in his ears, he couldn't help but stumble right into the Master when trying to get back up, what earned him another harsh slap across his face.  
This time the lumpish, tawdry golden rings crimping the fleshy fingers managed to draw blood in three different spots, forcing a small gasp of pain from cracked lips.  
“The next time I call for you, you get your scrawny ass here right away, did I make myself clear?”  
Biting down the vile choke of anger, Rogue only ground out a toneless “Yes, Sir.” and kept his eyes glued to the floor.  
Calloused fingers suddenly clutched his chin with a bruising vice-grip and bent his head up with bone crushing force, lifting the boy off his feet with ease.  
“Look at me, when you're being talked to! You're a stubborn little punk, but I'll beat some manners into you! Now, I'mma show you your place!”  
Without further ado Rogue got smashed to the ground, Jiemma's feet hovering threateningly over his neck.  
“There! That's much better. Do you understand now? You are but vermin at my feet, that I gave the merciful opportunity to show their value. Do not get conceited! You may be a Dragon Slayer, but to me you're but a fledgling and I might crush you whenever I see fit. Now, quit crawling around like some toddler, get up! I have some errands for you.  
Here's a list of stuff, I need to have delivered, and some goods from a store in Magnolia. You better waste no time, getting these things done.” 

The errands in question were nothing but barely concealed spite, taunting him to refuse and insist on staying, but Rogue had known all along, that whatever resistance he offered would have been dealt to Sting tenfold, thus he resigned himself to silent, albeit reluctant compliance.  
Thus he held his head high and accepted the order without so much as even a flinch.  
Jiemma looked at him in bewilderment and for a second Rogue could have sworn there was something akin to disappointment flashing through the cold, starring eyes.  
But then a sly expression spread on the distorted, harsh face, causing an ominous feeling of dread to slither down his guts.  
The Shadow Dragon Slayer clenched his jaw tightly, ready to bite down hard on the soft flesh of his tongue, should the beating continue.  
This man might force him into obedience and frighten him into submittal, but he wouldn't have the satisfaction of eliciting even the smallest noise from his throat. He might beat his flesh, but this was his pride, his dignity and this brute of a man wouldn't defile it.  
The Master, however, had seemingly lost his interest in Rogue; already sauntering back towards his private rooms, he only looked back at the boy still crouched down in front of his humongous chair.  
“What are you waiting for? Shouldn't you get moving? You wouldn't wanna stay out too long, now, would you?”  
His voice had been thick and dripping with taunt, the vile edge of a threat barely concealed by a mocking sweetness that sounded nauseatingly wrong and alien coming from this very person.  
Rogue shivered violently, a foreboding of oncoming mischief having his blood run cold.

After that he had spent the better part of the afternoon darting all across town, knowing perfectly well, that Jiemma had pulled those errands right out of his ass just to have him out of the guild and Sting all alone and at his complete mercy.

When he returned after what felt like weeks later, bones heavy and bruised from the previous beating, Minerva greeted him right at the door steps with a grin full of mockery and nails glinting like poison-dipped daggers in the late afternoon light.  
“Oh, what have we here?” She sing-sung. “Well, aren't you a fast delivery boy, cutie? Why don't I give you a nice little treat for your good work?”  
She closed the distance with languid steps, hips swinging ostentatiously, and placed a single wiggling finger on Rogue's chest; her long, pointy nail a constant reminder that she was, indeed a tigress merely playing with her prey.  
But tonight the prey in question wasn't willing to let himself get played and mocked, so Rogue stared her down icily, slapped her hand away and, with frustration and sorrow harshening his whole demeanour, pushed past her roughly without so much as a second glance.  
A grave mistake, as he should have know, but the need to return to Sting's side was getting unbearable and made him reckless.  
“This is not how you should treat a Lady, my dearest Rogue!” The false sweetness in her voice was nearly as sharp and venomous as the scarcely hidden snarl that cut through the air. Belatedly he realized, that his back was completely open and unguarded, but it didn't stop him from rushing on towards their room, the desperate hope of finding the White Dragon Slayer there spurning him into overdrive.  
Suddenly his feet wouldn't move, the pull of gravity so strong, that his whole body got dragged flush to the ground by an unyielding force.  
Minerva drew closer, her slit dress riding up her thighs almost obscenely, and placed a foot casually on top of Rogue's head; the sharp-edged metal heel digging painfully and cold into his temple.  
“Father was right! You really need to be taught some manners!” Her voice came out as nothing but a cruel cursing, insufficiently covered in honey.  
“So be grateful, for you'll receive the privilege of a special lesson from no one else but me myself. I might have even let you dash to your darling Sting's rescue in due time, if you had shown even the tiniest effort to please me. Alas, since you decided to spite me like that...”  
She put some weight onto the foot still pinning Rogue to the ground, and started twisting her heel until it dug into the soft skin, leaving a gush of blood spilling down a pale cheek at removal.  
“Maybe next time you'll think twice about rejecting my advances. Be gone!”  
A sharp pang rang throughout the hallway and the ground devoured him greedily.

When Rogue finally comes to, he finds himself face down on the floor of their bedroom, with only a vague memory of being sucked into a chaotic void, where inhumane sounds pierced his ears, eating away at his mind, while his nerves seemed to be on fire. The Shadow Dragon Slayer has no idea how long it had taken for him to lose consciousness, it might have been hours or mere moments, and even now, God knows how much later, his whole body aches and throbs.  
His muscles screech at him in protest when he tries to sit up and a nauseating dizziness tells him that his magic power had been drained completely.  
Truly, Minerva's Territory was a dreadful spell and to be reckoned with.

So he waits for a little longer to regain his bearing and eventually manages to hoist himself up.  
A glance at the darkening sky outside indicates, that fortunately he hadn't been out cold for quite as long as he'd dreaded, but the fact that Sting is still not back in here makes his stomach drop anxiously.  
“Rogue? A.. Are you okay?” A small voice pipes up from behind him and a second later a blur of pink and green comes flying right into his chest. “Frosch was so worried! You didn't move and... and... We thought you were dead!” His precious little Exceed is snuggling into his lap, nuzzling his belly like crazy, while she spills ugly, noisy tears.  
“I told you, it would take a whole lot more than some bruises to do someone as strong as Sting or Rogue in!” Lektor's words sound as boasting as ever, but there is relief written all over his face, showing that he, too, had been more than concerned about the Shadow Dragon Slayer's well being.  
“Hey, Rogue, where's Sting? Hasn't he been with you? I haven't seen him all day!”  
For a second Rogue considers making up some kind of excuse to spare their exceeds the nasty truth, but then he reconsiders and tells the whole story. These cats were their friends, they didn't deserve being lied to, even if it was in good intent.  
After he finishes, the three of them sit in brooding silence, each lost in their own bubble of concern, until Rogue's patience runs thin and he snaps.  
“That's it! I'm not gonna sit here any longer, doing nothing but wait. I'll go get him right now. This has gone on for long enough, Sting was already freaked out hours ago, who knows how he's holding up. And it's cold as shit in there, I bet he's half frozen by now.” He jumps to his feet, already summoning what meagre amount of magic he managed to accumulate, when Frosch calls out to him. “Rogue! You mustn't go! Please, they'll be back any minute now!”  
Taken aback, the Shadow Dragon Slayer refrains from sliding into the shadows and turns to his exceed in bewilderment.  
“Who is coming back? What do you mean, Frosch?”  
The little critter only shakes her head as tears well up in her eyes, so Lektor takes it upon himself to explain the situation.  
“Rufus and Orga! They've been checking the room every fifteen minutes, making sure that you didn't run off. They said, if you left, they would tell the master about the two of us. We're sorry, Rogue.”  
He, too, hangs his head for a moment, but then he swallows hard and looks back up.  
Although there is fierce determination glittering in his eyes, his voice is still shaky and breaking with the desperate effort to sound brave, when he adds:  
“Hey, Rogue, please don't worry about us! Just go and get Sting! We're going to be fine, I promise! Sting is more important right now! He might be injured, and I guess he's really scared all alone in the dark. I know I would be, and I'd wish someone would come for me. So, please! Bring Sting back to us, I'm sure the Master won't treat us this hard.”  
“Yeah, Fro thinks so, too!”  
Rogue's face falters and pales considerably, while anger rushes through his veins in rash, crushing waves.  
Though he looks at the cats with affection and pride lightening his eyes, another part of his mind breathes fire and brimstone at those bastards, that forced him to choose between Sting and their exceeds.  
In the end he groans wearily and collapses next to his bed, head buried in his arms and heart heavy as he admits defeat.  
He couldn't possibly expose Lektor and Frosch to the threat of being mauled by a furious Jiemma, since it would be their undoing.  
The little exceeds couldn't fight for themselves, and as much as it pains him, he's well aware, that right now they're in a much greater need of his protection than Sting, terrified and shaken though he may be.  
So he gathers the cats close, taking just as much comfort from their furry warmth as he is trying to offer, and swallows the bitterness sharpening his voice.  
“Naa, Sting would kill me, if I let anything happen to you. Besides, didn't you always say, he was the strongest Dragon Slayer in Fiore? Have some faith in him, I'm sure he'll soldier through this. Let's wait for him together, shall we?” 'And pick up the pieces later on', he adds mentally, but for the sake of the exceeds he puts up a tough facade and hides his anxiousness behind the brightest smile he can offer right now.

And thus they wait in a tension-brimming silence, as the sun steadily descends, bleeding a scarlet ominous red onto the walls, until the night sky lowers its velvet veil over the land.  
The scarce attempts at conversation die down after two or three sentences, and the helplessness settles heavy in Rogue's throat, as he paces their room for the umpteenth time.  
Though his body trembles in a state of constant alertness he nearly jumps out of his skin when the humongous, unsightly grandfather-clock downstairs announces the tenth hour with foreboding, eery tolls.  
The air reverberates with gloom, sending chills up and down his spine, but the sound of footsteps has his head snap up in excitement.  
Even though unsteady and hesitant, contorted by a serious limp the Shadow Dragon Slayer would recognize this rhythm anywhere.  
The paces stop right in front of their room, where his keen ears detect the sound of an exhausted sigh, before the doorknob starts to turn.  
Rogue dashes over to the threshold, relief, gratitude and yearning having his knees feeling faint, and finally, finally finds himself face to face with Sting. 

He is almost about to pull his friend into his arms tightly, hands already reaching for sagging shoulders, when Sting flinches back, with his eyes wide and staring.  
It takes Rogue a moment to overcome his puzzlement and another one for him to take in the other boy's appearance.  
Then fury pools deep inside his chest, burning and raging, ready to lash out at Jiemma, their guild mates, god and the whole world.  
Anyone who was responsible for those wounds or turned a blind eye when it happened. But mostly himself. For not taking the beating. For complying once again with Jiemma's cruel ways... Maybe, if he could have just stomached the punishment... 'No! This is not the time for self-pity! Get it together!' He scolds himself. 'There are more pressing matters at hand!'  
And it couldn't be more accurate than that.  
Sting's face is littered with small cuts, some of them still bleeding faintly, a dark bruise blooms around his left eye, highlighting the bright azure in an obscenely beautiful way, and his clothes are grimy, bloodstained and ragged.  
But the most dreadful sight are the angry marks and swellings all over his neck that are already starting to turn black.  
Marks, that, as Rogue shockingly realizes, look nauseatingly like brutish, meaty hands.  
“Sting... What... What the hell...” He finds that voice as well as reason avoids his shell-shocked form, as he stares at his best friend in anguish, mind reeling, finding neither head nor tails.  
But just standing there, gaping and caving to shock really wasn't an option now, so he tries again.  
“Sting... We gotta take care of these wounds! Come here, I... I'll get some hot water and... shit, where's the first aid kit? Ahh, fuck dammit... I... Why didn't I think of this sooner?”  
“Don't worry. I can do it on my own.” It's the first time the White Dragon Slayer speaks and his small voice sounds alien, too hoarse and dull, listlessly uttered words without so much as an ounce of life to them.  
“But...” Rogue is utterly dumbfounded, can't place the cool, withdrawn demeanour, and the feeling of shiftlessness in his guts increases tenfold.  
“I'm gonna take a shower...” With that Sting staggers past him, swaying dangerously on wobbly knees and Rogue reaches out by instinct, trying to prevent his obviously faint friend from crumbling to the ground, but once again, the other boy shies away from the touch and makes for the bathroom in apparent haste.  
When he slams the door shut, the clicking of the lock rings like a gun shot in the sensitive ears of the Shadow Dragon Slayer, and he couldn't feel worse if Sting had just punched his stomach.  
In all the years they'd known each other neither of them had ever felt the need for a door lock. They are close enough to one another, that nudity means nothing to them and respect each other enough not to violate their respective privacy. All in all either of them has complete faith in the other- or at least that's how things had been in the morning.  
'He's just hurt and touching might aggravate his injuries...' Rogue tries to tell himself with little success.  
'And who knows what Jiemma did to him... Maybe a nice hot shower will make him snap out of this...'

The water seems to be running for ages, steam is already starting to curl around the bathroom door, but Sting is still scrubbing his body. Rogue can hear the restless rubbing of a harsh brush on sore skin, and nearly drowned by the gushing of water, every now and then a choked sob, followed by muttered words, too soft for even his ears to catch.  
Once again he's doomed to idle waiting and it's grinding on his nerves with razor-sharp incisions.  
Why wouldn't Sting let him treat his injuries? That's how it was supposed to be....  
Why would Sting deny himself the comfort of warm fingers easing his suffering?  
He'd always been fond of those intimate, quiet moments made up from small caresses and gentle treatment.  
The bathroom door opens and reveals Sting, almost hidden behind shrouds of mist, as he limps towards his bed with unsteady steps.  
He has cleaned up the biggest part of his wounds and wrapped the most dire ones up in bandages, but his face is still swollen and raw and the thin scarf slung around his neck doesn't manage to cover the ugly bruises completely.  
Worst of all, his eyes are still hollow and empty and his trembling hands are clenched into the hems of his shirt.  
Rogue looks him over with soft, compassionate eyes, but his friend avoids his gaze and drops down onto the mattress, back facing the Shadow Dragon Slayer.  
“Hey, Sting... are you... no, of course not, what a silly question.” Rogue catches himself before he can ask something this stupid. Sting was very obviously a far cry from “all right”, but he just can't find his words, not now... not when his whole world seems to be crumbling beneath his feet.  
And still, the White Dragon Slayer answers:  
“Yeah... I'm fine. Sorry, but I'm going to sleep.”  
His voice is still flat and toneless, barely a whisper in the cold air drifting through the open window. Suddenly something crosses Rogue's mind, something Sting had mentioned himself a lifetime ago.  
“Hey, what about the book you got today? Don't you wanna start reading?”  
He sincerely hopes that the promise of snuggling up nice and warm under a shared blanket, all the while losing themselves in the next volume of their favourite adventure novel series might coax the blonde out of his shell.  
But his shy optimism is shattered, when Sting buries himself under a heap of blankets and mumbles:  
“You can read it, if you wanna. It's in my bag. I just wanna sleep.”  
After that he falls silent and Rogue is all alone with his thoughts and fears.  
Luckily their exceeds had fallen asleep some time ago, so they didn't bear witness to this unpleasant, unsettling reunion, that had been nothing like he had imagined.  
Usually Sting would always seek comfort in closeness, rapidly calming down, when Rogue's hands were combing through his hair or caressing his back.  
Whenever the Holy Dragon Slayer got seriously frightened, he'd curl up pressed flush against his friend, leaning into each and every touch that was oh-so-willingly given.  
And Rogue would enjoy those calm moments between warm sheets, when their bodies just acted on their own accord and time seemed to still, as either of them took in all the tiny things that made up his other part.  
Heartbeats, breathing, smell- even the structure of hair and skin forever engraved in their memory.  
So why was it now, that Sting rejected him this vehemently?  
Just what did this bastard do to him, to actually make him frightened of his best friend?  
Thousands of questions are buzzing through his head, which is already pounding and spinning, but can't find rest whatsoever.  
He stares at the ceiling for the longest time, trying to find answers hidden between the cracks and stains on the cold, dreary stones; to no avail, however.  
After a while he turns off the light and whispers a soft, fond  
“Goodnight, Sting...” into the darkness.  
But even though the still thundering pulse and the somewhat ragged breathing tell him that the other boy is very much awake, he doesn't receive an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand that's the end of Chapter III... Sorry for being somewhat of a tease, but I had my reasons to switch the perspective in this chap.  
> And do not fret, Chap. 4 gets even more angsty...  
> So for now I will leave you with my humble thanks for reading and my sincerest regards.  
> (It's getting ridiculously late on my end and I've got to go to work in five hours... -.-)  
> So, that's it for now.  
> Thanks for reading (and leaving a sign of appreciation if you deem the story worthy of it)
> 
> Kindest regards,
> 
> TGA


	4. Those who are tainted and those who got flayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright, you guys,  
> This Chapter is somewhat more explicit both in language (Jiemma is a homophobic asshole!) and content (bad-touch Guild Master), so proceed with caution; I really don't want to trigger anyone.  
> So... ahm.... enjoy (or rather not) the sequel of Sting's (and Rogue's) never ending nightmare Pt. 4/??

The room seems to be crushing him. Though he can neither see nor feel anything, Sting is positive, that the walls are creeping in on him, inching closer and closer with each passing minute.  
Wasn't the air already getting stifling?  
An undefined, meaningless amount of time earlier the realisation would have had him freak out in plain terror, but now, with his limbs unresponsive and lifeless with cold, mind hazy and barely in touch any longer, he can't bring himself to care.  
The frost is nestled in the innermost core of his bones by now, churning and aching, as if his body was made up of brittle timber cracking in the deep of winter, and slowly he starts questioning, if he had ever been warm before in his life.  
In the impenetrable darkness each rustling of straw or drafting of air could mean an approaching threat and from time to time something is still slithering through the remote corners of the room. Whenever the slick, sickening noise appears, Sting finds himself dry-heaving in an instant, as tears stain his cheeks and a cold sweat doubles the chills coursing through his teeth-clattering form.  
But every time he thinks he's hit rock bottom, his sensible nose would catch a reminiscence of the familiar earthen scent- like falling leaves, cedar, incense and bonfire-heat- and only then would he remember what warmth felt like, security and trust.  
He would think of Lektor then, his chestnut-coloured fur tickling his neck, as his exceed perched on his shoulder, of Frosch's ridiculously soft frog-suit, when he pet her head idly and of Rogue- determined and caring- with his hands always eager to give whatever it was that Sting needed, be it comfort, first aid or a brother-in-arms in battle.  
Countless times he imagines finally coming back to their room. Frosch would cry like the sweet little darling that she was and cling to his leg, until he'd pick her up and tickle her ears, Lektor's chest would swell with pride and he'd parade around, telling him over and over again, that he'd always known, Sting would manage just fine, because he was just that awesome. And Rogue... Rogue would drag him to the bathroom and patch up his injuries with gentle hands and soft, sad eyes.  
After that the four of them would huddle together closely on one of the two beds, as they shared a novel or listened to either of the boys reading aloud. They'd fall asleep like this, Sting and Rogue curled around each other, heads resting against one another, hands only a hairs width apart, with the cats snoring soundly between the crescent moons of their sleeping forms. And when they wake, their hands would most likely be entwined, but neither would draw away or comment on it for the longest time, save for the faint blush dusting their cheeks.  
The thought gives Sting some hope, some strength to endure this nightmare for another hour, but his reserves are dwindling.  
Just for how long...

His thoughts stall, as a sound that hadn't been there a minute ago, rings through the nothingness beyond his vision and elicits a dull pressure of unease behind his unseeing eyes.  
Initially it's only scurrying noises of something heavy moving about in the blackness, but then he detects the sound of breaths and another heartbeat, that is unmistakeably human.  
A wild, scourging hope fills his heart, easing the violent shivers wrecking his bones and bringing about a feeling of warm relief spreading throughout his whole body.  
“Rogue?” He whispers into the void around him with bated breath, fingers crossed in anticipation, as he already pictures the feeling of another body close to him, heat willingly shared, comfort unconditionally given.  
The rapidly nearing footsteps, however, are far too heavy and aggressive to ever belong to the Shadow Dragon Slayer, and thunder through the air with ill-meaning force. By now the formerly low breaths have taken on an enraged and animus nature, that has Sting shrinking into himself almost by instinct.  
“Not quite!” A cruel voice answers, causing the blood to rush deafeningly through the Dragon Slayer's ears as sheer terror takes a hold of him upon recognition.  
So the Master had finally come back to pick up where he left off...

“Calling out for our little friend are we? Did you honestly think, I'd let him come back in here?”  
Sting gasps at the scornful words- so Jiemma did notice.  
Before he can even start wondering about Rogue's fate, however, the Master continues:  
“What? If you weren't aware that I could watch the pathetic behaviour you've displayed in here, you're even dumber than I thought. Yes, Sting, I saw you clinging to Rogue like the fucking wimp that you are and it was the most disgusting thing I had to witness in quite a while.”  
A massive boot comes flying right into his midriff, hurling him against the wall with a sickening crunch.  
Jiemma walks over to his crumbling form and grabs Sting's neck in an iron grip, before he hoicks him up forcefully.  
The beefy fingers fasten their hold on the tender throat; nails, rings and calluses imprinting themselves into the soft, tanned skin, when he gets slammed into the wall behind him casually. His head collides painfully with the damp, greasy bricks and for a moment the world around him vanishes behind a curtain of colourful dots and stars, but Jiemma shakes him harshly and he is pulled back from the brink of unconsciousness.  
“Why is it, that a fucking Dragon Slayer turns out to be such a pitiful weakling? Just look at you! You're nearly soiling yourself!....” Their Master rages on, with spit flying from his lips and landing all over the boy's face, but Sting can't make out the words any longer.  
He is still suspended by nothing but the brutish hand clamped around his neck, feet dangling uselessly in mid-air, and Jiemma is slamming him into the wall with each syllable, so after a short time there is nothing but static buzzing in his ears. His eyes are starting to roll back into his head, body already going limp, when the beating comes to a halt and the grip around his windpipe loosens ever so slightly, allowing some air to enter his lungs.  
The white noise dies down gradually, enabling Sting to take in the heavy, tension-filled silence hanging over the room.  
“Pathetic. Unless sweet Rogue holds your hand you really can't accomplish anything, can you?”  
Jiemma's voice has lowered to a poisonous whisper and suddenly the blonde wished he was yelling again.  
“Is that the reason, why the two of you are always all over one another? Or is there something else?  
This constant touching... It's not normal...”

Sting isn't sure, if he can follow his Master's trail of thought.  
True, he and Rogue were awfully touchy at times, but he had never deemed it unusual.  
They had met at an early age, where children still crave the comfort and affection of their parents, but since both of them were orphaned – burdened with crippling guilt and loneliness – they sought solace in each other.  
“Do you know what I call guys who can't keep their hands off of other guys?" Almost rabid with hatred the atrocious voice doesn't even so much as wait for an answer.  
"Fags! Repulsive, dirty fags!  
And if there is one thing I can tolerate even less in my guild than weaklings, it's cocksucking little faggots!”  
Jiemma's voice is contorted with hatred and malice, making Sting shiver in dread, while his mind is reeling. He'd never thought about Rogue like that, is still too young to have even questioned and pondered his interests; all he knows is that Rogue's presence feels calming, his gentle hands always keeping him grounded and that he in return likes the sensation of the other's hair flowing through his fingers and takes comfort in the way their bodies curl perfectly around each other sometimes in the dead of night.  
But this is obviously nothing he can tell their Master now, not when his nails are drawing blood close to his pulse line as lifts him even higher.  
With a start Sting realizes, that the bearded, vicious face is only inches away from his own now, snorting breaths already grazing his skin and if he could see even the slightest bit, he'd find the deadhearted eyes staring right into his soul.  
“And do you know, why I despise gay limp-dicks that much? It's because they find pleasure in something sick like this...”

All of a sudden grossly plump, moist lips force themselves onto Sting's, licking at the sensitive skin and biting down hard on his bottom-lip until he can taste copper.  
“....and this...” Jiemma's tone is completely different now, husky and thick, the words uttered with a certain urgency.  
His hand grabs Sting's crotch roughly all at once, clenching tightly around his private parts and causing an outcry of agony to rise in the Dragon Slayer's throat.  
But he never gets the chance to scream, for as soon as he opens his mouth a vile tongue is shoved harshly past his lips, deep enough to have him gag and choke in torment.  
Their Master's breath tastes rancid and foul as he moans against Sting, all the while his hand won't refrain from pawing his dick and rear.  
He tries kicking Jiemma, but his legs can barely move and the attempt causes his tormentor to clench his fist tightly around the throbbing testes, and here Sting really passes out for a second.

He is jerked back into awareness, however, by a pair of hands shaking him by the shoulders, voice piercing his ears excruciatingly: "Wake up! Snap out of it, Sting!"  
The onslaught of violent kisses has ended, so Sting does the only thing his shell-shocked mind allows him to do – he screams, and screams and screams.  
“What's the matter, Sting? Did I hurt you or something?” Was the Master really mocking him right now?  
The tainting hands are still on his shoulders, still keeping him restrained and he claws at them, tries to pry them off, but they only fasten their hold, confining him between the slick wall and the heaving chest in front of his unseeing eyes.  
“Sting! Stop struggling, or I might really cause you pain! Do you hear me?!”  
He is now kicking like mad, wriggling and writhing in a frenzy to free himself, but the hands are still there, still clasping his shoulders and it seems as if they're burning his skin with acid.  
“Get your goddamn filthy hands off me! It's disgusting, you're disgusting... LET THE FUCK GO!!!!”  
A sudden burst of purest light explodes around his wrestling form, followed by a shock-wave of raw magic energy that throws his violator off his feet and sends him flying into the opposite wall with a satisfyingly dolorous thud.  
Sting feels like sinking to the ground, but surprisingly already finds himself collapsed into a shivering heap of wobbly limbs.  
He's panting heavily, sobs wrecking his form without control as he allows the nauseating frenzy of relief to wash over him.  
A certain circumstance is nagging at the back of his mind, but his thoughts are a bloody mess and his heart is racing this bad, his stomach starts seizing, so he pays it no heed.  
Until there is an unusually soft, pitiful whimper of pain somewhere across the room.  
Something isn't right and suddenly Sting is very afraid of the light to return.  
Why would he have been able to fend of Master Jiemma all of a sudden?  
True, he had acted in a state of adrenaline-fueled mania, but his magic had been depleted earlier and his body had been weakened by hunger, pain and cold.  
Furthermore, the Master should have seen this attack coming from a mile, why didn't he defend himself?  
Another small, tantalizing groan disturbs the silence and finally Sting pries open his tightly clenched eyes-  
to find the soft golden glow of their bedside lamp illuminating what is unmistakably their dorm.  
He is pressed into a corner next to his completely rumpled bedsheets and on the other side of the room, struggling to keep himself propped up on his forearms, a thick trickle of blood leaking from an angry cut on his brow, is Rogue, all wide-eyed confusion and pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I'm so so sorry for doing this to the poor Saber-Babes, but the next Chapter will be less angsty, I promise.  
> Thanks for reading (as always) and have my dearest greetings,
> 
> TGA


	5. My heartbeat, trembling in the still of your hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A soul, no matter how broken, no matter how hurt, will always answer to the calling of its counterpart. And then the sweetest cadence of solace and love will lull it to sleep, so it may heal.  
> In the still of those tender hands, the shattered heart will someday be whole once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there everyone...  
> Thank you all for all the kudos and lovely comments; they've really spurned me into writing quite a lot in the past few days and seeing my story progress feels absolutely amazing!
> 
> This Chapter is, once again, pretty explicit and offending, as we have homophobic language, non-con elements and a panic attack, so be warned and take care.  
> Only when the Chapter was nearly done, I realized, that I had forgotten all about the Exceeds, so lets assume, they somehow just slept through the whole ordeal * because magic *...  
> Additionally, Rogue turned out to be much wiser than the ordinary 12-year old, but lets just roll with the thought of him having what is called an "old souls"... In the end, it wouldn't be all that far-fetched, for even in canon, he is quite perceptive and sensitive, and I always imagined him to be really capable when it comes to emotionaly stuff or comfort...  
> So, yeah...  
> Btw, the Chap. is also long as fuck and even while writing it occured to me, that this Chapter was going to be a humongous monstrosity, but I couldn't find any appropriate scene, to make a cut (and I didn't really wanted to divide it either), so now you'll have to deal with this oversized fucker.
> 
> Have fun, be safe and have my dearest greetings.

Sting stares in utter petrification as heavy droplets of blood make their way across a pale, bruised temple before falling lazily onto the polished floor.  
His frenzied mind is both screaming bloody murder and bustling with silence at the same time and the only coherent thought that is running around in circles is “Impossible!”.  
His brain refuses to process what went down in the past few seconds, as he cannot comprehend how he even got to their room in the first place. He had been down in the pit, alone with Jiemma's horrid touches, hadn't he?  
So why- WHY is it that the attack so clearly aimed to rid himself of his torturer, ended up hurting trusty, innocent Rogue of all people?  
Was this another trick played at his mind to erode his defences and fuck with his sanity- or had he already been pushed over the edge without even realizing it?  
As he curls in on himself, eyes never leaving Rogue's frozen form - still unable to find his feet - hazy memories come flooding back in waves, as if someone had hit rewind on the turntable of time.  
Now he remembers fighting hopelessly against a crushing weight pressing up against his rigid body, tearing at fingers seemingly determined to crush his throat and thrashing around to avoid the sensation of a rock-hard erection rubbing up against his thighs.  
How he could ever delude himself into believing he'd managed to defy the overwhelmingly forceful death-grip Jiemma maintains on his comparatively fragile form, is beyond him.  
Of course he had been far too weak to free and fight for himself and thus allowed the Master to have his ways with him.  
After blacking out from the pain inflicted on his crotch, he'd come around a couple of minutes later, to the sordid feeling of vile breaths moaned into his face and hips grinding against his own crushingly.  
With every harsh jerk he felt the disturbing hardness slide obscenely over his stomach and groin, Jiemma's movements staggering, body eagerly pressing closer in the pursuit of friction.  
Throughout the assault, the slick, rough tongue never left Sting's lips, licking and sucking greedily, while saliva ran down his chin in hot, steady streams.  
The hand that had been fumbling with his privates earlier, slid beneath his torn shirt and wandered lecherously over his chest, twisting his nipples painfully every once in a while.  
As the panted groans grew louder, the thrusting got even more vulgar and erratic, until Jiemma let out a throaty moan and, with one last brute strike, sagged heavily against Sting's trembling body.

“There, did you like that, you damn little slut?” He ground out between ragged breaths, already straightening up again, his hand still keeping the boy suspended in mid-air.  
“Let this be a fair warning!” He spat scornfully. “If I ever find the two of you all lovey-dovey and balls deep in your gay shit again, I'll make sure that dear little Rogue is going to take it... all the way...  
Tomorrow you're gonna show me, that you've come to understand, that the darkness is nothing to be afraid of, or else I'll take you for another round!  
Now get out of my sight, you fucking piece of shit. “  
Without sparing Sting so much as another look, Jiemma tossed him onto the floor right in front of the door and walked past him with indifferent steps.

The White Dragon Slayer had spend a long time on the cold stones of the empty hallway, waiting for the shivers to subside and the life to return to his legs, until he finally picked himself off of the ground and made for his bedroom with swaying steps and unshed tears blurring his vision.  
He remembers dully showering for what felt like hours, scrubbing feverishly at his skin, but the stains just wouldn't come off.  
After that he draws a blank; logic, however, tells him that he must have fallen asleep at some point and his reeling mind, unable to deal with what had been done to him, had replayed the events in his dreams over and over again.  
He'd probably been flailing and rolling around, eventually falling to the floor and of course Rogue had rushed to his side, trying desperately to rouse him from the torturous nightmare, unaware that his well-meaning touch would trigger this kind of reaction.  
Sting feels like the floor just gave way beneath him as the realisation sinks in- not only had he lashed out at Rogue, he had also insulted him dreadfully, and now the regret weighs as heavily at his heart as the abominable memories of the past few hours.  
He has to clamp his mouth shut quickly, for he isn't sure, if whatever seems to be rising in his throat is going to be another hoarse scream, hysterical laughter or the remaining contents of his stomach.  
Probably everything at once...  
How could he ever make this up again, without having to explain what exactly brought the sudden aversion of physical contact about?  
Could he even make it up altogether?  
Was this what Jiemma had intended all along?  
To drive a wedge between the two of them, by traumatizing him so severely, that even someone as familiar and beloved as Rogue repulsed him?  
Had their close relationship offended him to a degree, where he saw fit to resolve to abuse and torture only because he deemed comradeship and bonds weak?  
If so, it had worked splendidly this far, for Rogue is finally staggering to his feet, probably to flee the room and the White Dragon Slayer can't even blame him.  
He just hopes, that his friend will spare him harsh, hateful words and reproaches, for he doesn't know, if he could bear it right now, without bursting into tiny little shards and pieces.  
Yet, to his surprise, Rogue doesn't leave but approaches him cautiously, hands raised in a placatory gesture, and crouches down in front of Sting, mindful of keeping a safe amount of space between the two of them.  
The blood is still dripping from his forehead, underlining the fairness of his skin, but his eyes are tender and compassionate, as he notices the intense tremors wrecking the shrinking form.  
Sting still doesn't dare to utter a single word, fearing that, if the silence stretching almost palpable between them is broken, so will be their friendship.  
But then the Shadow Dragon Slayer whispers three little words and the blonde can't help but burst into pathetic sobs.

“I'm sorry, Sting!”

It's all that Sting needs to come undone right there, curled into a tight little ball in the corner of the room, head buried in his arms, as he cries like he had never done before.  
“Sting... really... I'm so sorry, I never meant to scare you! But you were tossing and turning in your sleep and suddenly started yelling... I... just wanted to wake you...”  
Rogue's voice is hoarse with held-back tears and his words only cause Sting to wail even harder, as his heart feels too grave and empty at the same time.  
He had hurt his best friend, rejected his kindly offered comfort and shrugged him off brusquely and yet-here was Rogue apologizing.

It's too much for him, all the feelings crushing down at once, traversing through his body until he can't tell up from down, sees the room spinning around him, as the air is forced out of his lungs.  
He remembers the suffocating sensation from earlier and can almost smell the disgusting breath, taste the slick tongue...  
He doesn't even realize, he's hyperventilating, gasping up too short gulps of air as blackness already creeps in on him, before his limbs start convulsing and lock up.  
His ears only register a high-pitched, maddening ringing, until Rogue's voice – firm, but affectionate – breaks through the chaos.  
“Sting! Look at me!” And the blonde finds himself complying helplessly, gaze now transfixed onto the warm, wine-red eyes brimming with concern.

Rogue is aching to pull Sting against his chest, but reigns himself in, when it occurs to him that the gesture wouldn't be all that welcomed right now.  
Still, he cant restrain himself from guiding two tendrils of shadows, shaped like a pair of hands, towards the other boy, to brush his tear-stained cheek with a barely noticeable caress.  
The blonde flinches at first contact but then allows the touch after a moment's hesitation, what cues Rogue to have his shadowy fingers thread through the soft, unruly golden bangs.

“Easy now!” He murmurs. “Easy! Take some deep breaths... Like this...”  
He inhales thoroughly, then releases his breath slowly, encouraging Sting to mimic his actions.  
And Sting tries. Though staggering and ragged at first, the intakes of air even out gradually.  
“That's it, you're doing just great. Keep going. In.... and out.... Yeah, exactly like that.... Don't stop, come on, breath with me!”  
Rogue continues his instructions, keeps on praising and coaxing his friend, as he guides him through the attack, and his shadows never break contact, always tangled in blond strands or trailing over damp cheeks with steady, careful motions, but Sting still can't calm his pounding heart or reeling mind.  
His muscles are yet to relax, as they spasm rock-hard with cramps and though an increasing amount of oxygen manages to flood his lungs, his head is still spinning and he feels like fainting any second.

Suddenly there's something ghosting over his knuckles, something incorporeal, yet perceptible and after the initiate impulse to draw back jerks through his arm, he recognizes the thing in question as another waft of swirling shadows.  
Rogue waits patiently until Sting's gaze finally focuses on him again, then asks cautiously:  
“May I try something? I promise I won't hurt you! And you can pull away when ever it gets too much... Just... give me a chance to help.”  
The nebulous hand is offered for the White Dragon Slayer to take it, palm turned up and fingers spread slightly in an attempt to appear as innocuous as possible.  
Sting sucks in another painfully unstable breath, before he reaches for the patiently waiting hand and allows the soft fume to caress his finger-tips.  
However, after a moment of fondling the sensitive skin, index and middle-finger start tapping a quick, erratic rhythm against his palm.  
A rhythm, he now realizes, that matches his racing pulse, mimicking any stumbling and skipping of his aching heart with absolute perfection.  
“Is this okay with you?” Rogue asks, his voice brittle with anxiety, while his eyes search for signs of augmenting distress in Sting's features - and darken, as the blonde shakes his head.  
He quickly withdraws any shadowy tendril currently touching the other boy, but to his utter surprise Sting mumbles:  
“No,... it's... I'd rather... You can” before sighing exasperatedly and slowly reaching for Rogue's real hand.

He hesitates briefly, but then swallows hard and grabs the pliant fingers.  
“This is much better.”  
The whisper is so low, that even Rogue wonders if he'd just imagined it, but something seems to spark to life in Sting's eyes at the very moment, before he averts his gaze.  
To the Shadow Dragon Slayer's utter delight, his shaken friend doesn't even flinch, as his pale, slender fingers start caressing the quivering palm ever so gently, trailing over cuts and scars lovingly, before resuming the gentle rapping.

“Focus on the rhythm! Just follow the rhythm! Keep on breathing... Easy... Shh... You're doing great!”  
The soothing words wash over Sting's juggled consciousness like the waves of a warm, dark ocean and he allows himself to let go and be carried by their gentle sway, as he blocks out any sensations save for Rogue's voice and the ceaseless soft tapping.  
“Yeah... that's it! You're safe now... Whatever they did to you... it's over! You're save here; I won't hurt you and I won't let anything happen to you!”  
Rogue repeats his gentle words of comfort over and over, until they turn into something akin to a prayer, a mantra almost lulling Sting to sleep. He feels his limbs getting heavy as tension finally seeps out of the taut muscles, leaving behind nothing but bone-deep exhaustion and weariness.  
He dully realizes, that the rhythm of Rogue's fingers has slowed considerably and his heart has stopped its nauseating racing, while the reeling in his head finally comes to a halt.  
He can breath freely now and his guts uncoil, ridding him of the restless churning and seizing that had tormented his abdomen.  
“Well done... You did really great! See, I knew you could pull through! It'll be fine now. Just keep on breathing!”  
When Sting opens his tired eyes eventually, he finds Rogue smiling at him warmly, fingertips still trailing over his palm with fondness and caution, while his whole demeanour emits an unspoken promise of safety and solace.  
“Feeling better, now?” He inquires quietly and receives a small nod as an answer, but the blonde still refuses to speak.

“What do you want me to do? Shall I help you to get back into bed? Do you need some water... Or... Please, tell me what I can do!”  
Sting is absolutely overwhelmed by the patience and care Rogue provides so unconditionally and the mere thought of having treated him like some kind of threat now seems ridiculous and somewhat shameful.  
This wasn't brute, malevolent Jiemma who had forced himself upon Sting with vile, repulsive actions-  
this was Rogue.  
Dear, empathic Rogue, all warmth and security, who would rather bite off his tongue, than ever causing him harm or distress.  
So Sting does what his instincts tell him without listening to his still stalling mind, and lets himself slump forward against the other's chest, face buried in the soft fabric, as he curls up against his body.  
“Sorry! I'm so sorry!” He sobs meekly into the black sweater, voice hoarse and trembling.  
“I... I never wanted to hurt you... and I didn't mean those wor...”  
“Hush! Shhh... It's alright. I'm not mad, I promise. It wasn't your fault, it was me who startled you. I'm the one who should apologize.”  
Sting only shakes his head jerkily, but his tense shoulders unwind ever so slightly, as the words register and he presses himself closer against the soothing heat radiating off of the dark haired boy.  
Two arms wrap around his shivering body in an achingly tender way, giving Sting all the time in the world to reject the touch, but he only nuzzles the already tear-soaked fabric needily, as he allows himself to be held.  
Rogue's hands trail over his hunched back in constant loose circles, and he starts rocking him back and forth gently, while he rests his chin carefully on top of the mop of golden hair.  
The blonde clings to him for dear life, still choking on every breath he draws, but the tears slowly subside.  
Here, in the still of Rogue's arms, engulfed by the unique, intimate scent of everything earthen and warm, time seems to lose its relevance and after a meaningless number of minutes, the feeling of safety finally seeps into Sting's consciousness.  
His body unwinds, limbs going lax and he sags heavier against the Shadow Dragon Slayer, unsurprised to find their heart beats completely in sync.  
“Hey Rogue...” He whispers tentatively. “Would you mind staying up with me a little longer?”  
“Of course not. But maybe we should get you back into bed... It's getting cold here on the floor.”  
And now Sting feels the chill creeping over his skin, too; so he is more than grateful, when Rogue steers him towards his bed and eases him down onto the mattress, before shuffling off to get the blankets.  
When he returns, Sting manages a miserably shaky smile, but it's enough to give both of them some faith, that things would somehow be okay again someday.  
“Did you.. The book.. Have you...” Sting suddenly stammers awkwardly with his hands fidgeting in his lap and Rogue breaths a small huff of laughter.  
“Nah, I wouldn't dare reading without you. Why do you ask?”  
He chews on his bottom-lip insecurely for a moment, before mumbling:  
“Well, I don't think I can sleep just yet... and I thought, we could start now... but you're probably tired... I mean, it's the middle of the night and....”  
He trails off, but the Shadow Dragon Slayer only smiles at him gently and makes straight for Sting's bag, returning after some moments of rummaging with the book in question.  
He slumps down onto his own bed and readies himself to start reading aloud - convinced that after the whole episode tonight, the other wouldn't be too keen on sharing a resting place - when he feels his mattress dip and Sting wriggling his way under the blanket.  
He looks at the blonde incredulously for a moment, before a soft smile lightens his face and he, too, slides beneath the sheets.

Sting had surprised himself with his own boldness, but this was the way things were supposed to be- and his unstable mind craves normality, needs something familiar to cling to until the world stops crumbling away beneath his feet.  
Once again he's reluctant to make contact and has to remind himself, that there was nothing to be afraid of, that this was something they had done countless times before and he'd cherished it.  
So if he shied away from it now and distanced himself from Rogue because of something the other wasn't even to blame for, Jiemma would have won.  
He knows, if he wants to have at least a chance of somehow overcoming what had been done to him, he would have to trust his best friend.  
So he leans in and snuggles up against the Shadow Dragon Slayer with his cheek propped against the firm shoulder, as his eyes keep trailing over the pages and a comfortable silence settles over the room.

After twenty-something minutes the weight resting against Rogue's side increases, until Sting's body goes completely limp and he sinks into his lap, eyes closed and face completely relaxed.  
Breathing a small chuckle, he carefully guides the sleeping boy's head to rest comfortably on the pillow, before turning around to leave the bed as quietly as possible.  
He hasn't even gotten to his feet, yet, when he is stopped by a weak hand gripping the hem of his shirt.  
When he turns around, eyebrow raised questioningly, he finds sapphire eyes looking up to him groggily and pleading.  
“Stay here? Please?” The blonde slurs, before his lids slide shut again and the hand restraining Rogue falls away.  
The dark haired boy stares at his friend for another few seconds, grateful albeit surprised, before climbing back into his bed, carefully reaching for Sting's hand.  
With a little squeeze he coaxes him awake, locking gaze with hazy, gemstone-blue eyes and his features become a little more sombre.  
There's something he needs to make his friend understand, something important, so even though it pains him, he won't allow him to sleep just yet.  
“Sting, promise me something!”  
“Whad issit?” The weary answer is contorted by a yawn, but Sting manages to keep his eyes open.  
“Promise me, that whenever you're ready or feel like it, you'll find someone, whom you trust and you'll talk about what happened tonight! It doesn't have to be me, if that makes you uncomfortable. Just... someone you're okay with. Talk to them and let yourself be comforted.”  
Sting only gasps quietly at the selflessness and affection in Rogue's words and lies with bated breath, as the other one continues.  
“I have no idea, what that bastard did to you, but it must have been something horrible and traumatizing. This fucktard has already hurt you enough, so please don't let him destroy you by bottling it all up and letting it fester. Promise me, you will allow yourself to heal!”  
He gives the now quivering fingers another firm squeeze and his heart clenches, as he sees two or three stray tears spilling from Sting's eyes once again, but before he can even reach put, to brush them away, the blonde has already buried his face in the crook of his neck, one hand still grasping Rogue's the other one fisted into the back of his shirt.  
A heart beat passes, then he nods eagerly against his best friend's shoulder and breathes:  
“As long as I've got you, it'll be fine again, someday.”  
Rogue feels the heat of a blush rising in his cheeks, but the words also set something aglow in his chest and he busies his fingers with carding ardently through Sting's hair, who sighs contently and snuggles closer.  
The Holy Dragon Slayer uses his last conscious breath to whisper a soft “G'dnight, Rogue...” into the darkness and finally lets the alluring nothingness pull him in, taking the sensation of the softest of kisses being pressed to his crown down with him into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yiieha, in your face Jiemma, right?  
> A steadfast friendship like theirs won't be shaken, come hell or high water.  
> Thank you for reading and your support.
> 
> Greetings,
> 
> TGA
> 
> PS: Upon re-reading I noticed, that Rogue is still bleeding... Let's just imagine, they took care of it at some point during the ruckus.


	6. To whom I've given all my prayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Softly, gently Sting unravels, beneath a shower of golden morning blessings, as he allows himself the comfort craved for too long, and he cries out his sins in the safety of Rogue's never-wavering arms.  
> But moments like this never last long, and before they know it, reality raises its ugly head and throws both of them headfirst into the next trial of hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, guys,
> 
> look, what I did! I produced something that could almost count as fluff now, didn't I?
> 
> Better make the most of it, for there won't be any of it even vaguely in sight for miles. 
> 
> Sorry not sorry.

Early morning light washes out their room in pale, ephemeral colours of cool rosé and adds an almost unearthly glow to the pristine white sheets cocooning the peaceful forms of two boys, as they hold each other tightly.  
In the gentle grasp of deep, dreamless slumber their faces appear soft and contend, having shed all the sorrow and pain that had been hardening their features throughout the previous night.

When Sting wakes, it feels like emerging from a sea of quicksilver – limbs pliant and sluggish; his mind afloat in a state of blissful blankness – and the only thing that registers is the feeling of a soothing warmth surrounding him.  
Rogue's breaths are deep and steady as they ghost through his shining, fair hair and even in sleep his hands won't stop trailing over bruised shoulders and sore skin.  
His arms never slacken while maintaining the firm hold on the dear body in their protective embrace, keeping Sting nestled safely against his chest, chin resting softly on the blond crown.  
His heartbeat – slow and sturdy – is the first sound that penetrates the comfortable haze clouding the White Dragon Slayer's senses and the familiar rhythm only adds to the feeling of utter serenity currently swirling in his chest, as his sleep-addled brain has yet to resurface from the black abyss of unconsciousness.

Rhythm... Heartbeats...  
… the sensation of fingers tapping a pulse in his palm... Bloody tears on Rogue's cheek...

Memories suddenly come flooding back, indifferent to Sting's increasingly desperate attempts, to block them all out to prolong the few seconds of merciful obliviousness, but to no avail.

Harsh cold... darkness... panic... rancid breath... beefy lips... roaming hands... pain, despair... the guttural noise their Master let out as he climaxed roughly against his crotch...

He is trembling all over again, tremors so violent, that his body feels like falling apart, if Rogue's arms hadn't been holding him together.  
The Shadow Dragon Slayer is startled awake within seconds, to find Sting biting down into the blanket with insane force, as he tries to suppress what would have been a blood-curdling scream.  
Tears are already running down his cheeks, tumbling from eyes that once harboured the sunlight itself but now appear blood-rimmed and dull.  
For a moment the sight has him frozen in a state of shock and plain agony, then he comes to his senses.  
The hand, that had been petting the other boy's back reaches slowly for the blotchy, damp cheek, hovering patiently over the skin to give Sting the chance to refuse the touch.  
Only when he's sure, that the contact is indeed safe and accepted, does he finally close the distance, to brush the tears away and pry the now shredded fabric from jaws clenched shut in a frenzied rigour.

Once freed from the gag, Sting's ragged, loud sobbing seems deafening in his sensitive ears, so he pulls him in again, smothering the wet, painful sounds in his chest, while the blonde clings to him almost crushingly and he cries until he has no tears left to shed.  
Rogue cradles him with utmost care, tries to wrap himself around the shaking form completely as if shielding Sting from the world could miraculously heal those bleeding wounds his soul has sustained.  
His lips keep whispering words of comfort at first and sweet little nothings when he runs out of them, before he resolves to silently pressing small, soft kisses onto the impossibly silken hair tickling his cheeks.

They lay like this for more than an hour, waiting for the sobs to subside and the trembling to still, watching the first golden rays of sunlight creep over their bed, until they get caught in Sting's flaxen strands, as they crown him with an unreal halo of purest gold and illuminate his face.  
The tear-stains marring his faintly freckled skin suddenly glitter and glow, giving him the aura of a mythical being, something ethereal right out of a fairy tale and Rogue can't help but realize it with an overwhelming clarity, then.  
Sting was beautiful.  
And neither tears nor tremors could tarnish that simple truth.  
Rogue tries to burn the image into his memory, wants to keep it there until the last of days and then some more; even if he's not too sure why, but something deep and subconscious tells him that right at this very moment his heart had registered something – something important, that would yet take his mind years to discover.

They look at each other for the longest of moments until both lean in simultaneously to rest their foreheads against one another, drinking up the feeling of a brilliant sunrise poured out over still dream-bedazzle skin, when Sting finally breaks the silence.  
“Thanks, Rogue...” His breathing is still somewhat elaborate, but the low beating of his heart shows that he has calmed down considerably.  
“Thanks for staying with me, for...” Seemingly searching for words, he hesitates for a ponderous second, then just closes his eyes and continues “...for... THIS...”  
It's a sigh, a confession and an orison of grace and Sting utters it with a firm squeeze of the delicate, pale fingers laced tightly with his own.  
“I wouldn't know what to do without you.” He admits, and Rogue doesn't miss a beat to answer a hushed  
“Neither would I.”

The smile that blossoms somewhere in the nearly non-existent space between them is like a second sun coming to life, all hazy, bright and so full of open affection, that Sting can't help but release the small, breathless laughter, that had been bubbling up in his chest and it ascends into the bright nova of light reflected from the ceiling.  
He sinks back onto the mattress, all cosy and weightless as a down, and takes the Shadow Dragon Slayer with him easily.  
He ends up with his head resting atop a fluffy mountain of pillows, his whole body safely encircled by wiry limbs and Rogue's form hovering above him with questioning eyes, as he straddles the blonde's lap.  
For a short-lived moment Sting marvels at how neatly their bodies always fit against each other – effortlessly gravitating around some undiscovered centre in the wisp of space between their hearts – and how secure and cherished it makes him feel.

Rogue still looks at him all soft, wide eyed wonder, gazing at galaxies made up from timid freckles, as he loses himself in constellations only he can see.  
Maybe, if he wished upon them hard enough, one of the countless little stars, kissed into being by one itself, might finally guide them home – wherever that might turn out to be.  
The fragile bubble the first threads of morning mist had weaved around them brims with everything gentle and slow, giving them a sweet moment of relief, to catch their breaths, that had been so suddenly stolen within last night's terrors.  
But here, sheltered between sheets drenched in their sleep-warm scents both seem to start growing into something whole and sacred, something that was more than just the simple addition of one soul and another.  
And if fate had been a kinder spirit, had at least even this once grazed them with their mercy, the pieces missing to their hearts would have fallen into place, right there, right then –  
alas, Fortuna wasn't called a fickle mistress for naught, and so it comes, that this rare moment of speechless finding, that should have been theirs and theirs alone, is shattered by the sound of footsteps approaching rapidly.

The sharp, predatory clicking of heels identifies the perpetrator as Minerva, but before Rogue can so much as move even a single muscle, Sting pushes him back not too gently and all but flies over to his own bed, where he buries himself beneath an ridiculous amount of blankets.  
Only seconds later the falsetto of her mocking voice purrs through the door.  
“Sting! Rise and shine, sweety!”  
When nothing but silence heeds her taunting greeting, she continues, tone suddenly vicious and harsh:  
“Get your sorry ass out of bed, loser! My father awaits you in the guild hall! You've got ten minutes to show your pathetic face, or else...  
Well, he said, you'd know what he meant...  
Gee, I wonder what it could be...”

There's still no sound to be heard from the White Dragon Slayer, but Rogue is sure, he can see the nest of blankets shiver miserably.  
“Well, suit yourself... I just came here, to let you know in advance,... I even had the kindness to give you at least a couple of minutes to prepare yourself, but if you're gonna be like that... “  
She spins around with a screeching sound of metal grinding on cold, grey stone and takes two sauntering steps, before stopping again and turning back to the door.  
“Oh, I nearly forgot... Rogue! Father has a mission for you and he wants you to leave at once.”

Suddenly the door flies open, revealing Minerva leaning casually against the wooden frame, as she waves a piece of parchment delicately.  
With an eyebrow raised inquiringly, she stalks into the room and heads for Rogue's bed with unduly teasing steps.  
Bending low over the Shadow Dragon Slayer, she shows off her corset-propped bosom, while the skin-tight black dress reveals far too much of her sun-tanned, slender body.  
Even though she isn't that much older than the Twin Dragons, her provocative behaviour and slink attire are a stark contrast to the boys – both sporting bed-heads and loose sweatshirts, looking very, very soft and unspoiled beneath the shower of morning sun.

Her finger trails Rogue's tightly clenched jaw for a second, before she leans in even closer and breaths a lecherous:  
“Don't be tardy, you wouldn't keep us waiting, now, would you?” against his lips and drops the job-request into his lap.  
With a last condescending look at Sting's bed, she makes for the door, leaving behind nothing but a scornful whisper, that sounds a lot like “Pathetic!” and her obnoxiously sensual scent.

Rogue jumps to his feet in a hurry, adamantly ignoring the black spots dancing in front of his vision, as he rushes over to the other bed to pry Sting from the layers upon layers of fabric.  
All the commotion has startled their Exceeds and they wriggle out of their usual hiding spot in between some drawers of their commode.  
A single look seems to be enough for Lektor to evaluate the whole situation and thus he gestures for Frosch to head over to Rogue's lap, while he himself wriggles around until he's finally made contact with his friend.  
Both Dragon Slayers start petting their cats mindlessly but still keep their eyes trained on one another, searching for answers and solace. Silence settles for a moment, heavy and suffocating, and it keeps the little critters from piping up, as they watch the fear-dripping scene.

“Sting! Is that bastard for real? He can't be seriously planning on locking you up there again!”  
Rogue's voice quivers and breaks like a harp-string out of tune and the sound of it grinds on his nerves hideously.  
“He wants me to show him that I overcame my fear of the dark...”  
The White Dragon Slayer responds automatically, the usually lively pattern of his speech now drowned in impassive bluntness.  
He slowly hoists himself up, trying his best not to wince in pain, when his bruised and beaten flesh protests violently against any form of movement whatsoever.  
“What's that supposed to mean? After what he did to you yesterday, there's no way anyone could ever throw you back in there! You're still injured- I mean look at those bruises all over your neck! And...”  
Rogue is already working himself into a vile, white-hot rage, but Sting places a gentle hand onto his forearm and, locking gaze with his friend, interrupts the tirade.  
“I'll be fine. I... I can do this.”  
The answer was wrong on so many levels, the Shadow Dragon Slayer loses count immediately.  
The blonde's grip is brittle and cold like the thin ice on puddles after the first frost, and even though his face contorts with the effort to offer something akin to a smile, he misses it by miles.

A bold idea starts to take shape in Rogue's head all of a sudden. It's nothing more than a mere sequence of 'what if's' in the beginning, but Sting's eyes – plagued by hauntings, all hopelessly defeated and done for – drive him to follow his trail of thoughts and forge those flitting little schemes into a thorough concept, a plan that might actually even work, if only some carefree deity idly watching, would grant them at least the tiniest bit of succour...

After only a few seconds of intense pondering, his mind is made up and his heart is set, so he grabs the clam hand still resting close to his wrist, and gives it a determined squeeze.  
“I'm coming with you. We're gonna do this... together.”  
Sting's face all but falters in utter bewilderment, before panic creeps over his features once again, and he shakes his head vehemently.  
“Are you insane?! You... You can't come with me! Don't even think about it. I.... I'll be fine! Please don't be so reckless; I couldn't worry abou-...”  
The blonde is pleading with him, voice almost snapping with distress, but Rogue won't have any of it. Not again.  
“Are you aware, that we had the exact same conversation yesterday? And look, what came out of it!  
I won't stand down a second time and I won't let you talk me out of this. You're not going in there alone ever again!”  
His usually laid-back, low tune has changed drastically; there's a stubborn, passionate determination now laced into his words; and he stands tall, eyes sparkling and posture proud.

Sting can't help but look at him in warm, fond amazement, but he is still as set on having Rogue out of harms way, as the other is on putting himself right into the line of fire.  
“How are you gonna do this in the first place? Master can see, what's going on in there and if he notices you, he'll...”  
Once again he is interrupted by smooth, calm words:  
“He might be able to see what's happening in the light, but he can't see what lies hidden in the shadows. And from what I've seen from the pit, there's quite a lot of them down there.”  
Rogue can't help but grin smugly, as he continues.  
“Listen, I'll stay within the shades, and I'll slip into yours and protect you, when things get dire.”  
“But he gave you a mission! Are you gonna disobey his direct order?! You mustn't! You hear me! He'll kill you!”  
The White Dragon Slayer is running out of points to make and it terrifies him. He knows, that once Rogue has set his mind on something, he was hell-bend on seeing it through to the end, no matter the costs, not caring for his own safety.  
“Just watch me! I thought of something to avoid this predicament as well. Get dressed, Sting, and head for the main hall.  
I just have to make sure, Master witnesses me leaving, so you'll have to hang in there for some minutes. But I swear, I'll be right back, right at your side. It's going to be okay, I promise!”

Finally Sting caves, can't deny himself the prospect of support any longer, for in all honesty, the sole thought of having to spend even one more minute within the confines of the abominable pit, alone with Jiemma's hands and lips and hardness, already has him taste bile.  
But there's still something he has to make sure, one condition; and he has to drive his point home loud and clear.  
“No, promise me something else! Promise me, you won't be too reckless! Promise me, you won't get yourself hurt. Promise, that when the evening comes, we'll meet up in here again. And we'll read the second Chapter of our book. And we'll be fine!  
Please! I need to know, that you won't get yourself in grave danger for my sake! Promise it!”  
Now his voice cracks and desperate tears well up in his eyes, as he curses his own helplessness and weakness, but in the end it's Rogue's unconditional commitment and iron will to protect someone as pathetic and soiled as him, that causes his eyes to spill.

“Promise me, we'll be okay in the end, and I will endure and I will fight and I won't let either of us get hurt. So you do the same!”  
He couldn't bear the thought of his best friend getting injured on his behalf, has to hear it from Rogue himself – the assurance, that he wouldn't throw his soundness away in some heroic act of sacrifice, leaving Sting behind in shatters and shards.

So he extends his pinky-finger towards the Shadow Dragon Slayer and looks at him intently, before whispering an agonizingly sweet “Please!” into the morning sun.  
Rogue carefully hooks their pinkies together, a firm, warm touch, accompanied by an open, fond smile and his answer comes without hesitation, uttered with scarcely hidden affection.  
The scarred knuckles of his unoccupied hand come to brush the tears away, lingering on the prominent cheekbones for longer, than actually necessary, before breathing, what Sting had been so eager to hear.  
“I promise!”  
His eyes shine with resolution and brim with something too soft and longing to put into words, but his heart trembles heavily, burdened with the weight of his betrayal, as he is perfectly aware, that there was not even the slightest chance for him, to keep that oath to Sting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, support and ever so durable hearts, that suffer through this mountain of angst.  
> I guarantee, they'll be fine... someday.
> 
> Have my dearst regards, find something nice in your advends-calendar today (is this even a thing wherever you live? I'm curious!) and be safe.
> 
> TGA


	7. Es wacht kein Gott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's their unwavering trust in one another that carries them through a fight ripped right out of the nightmare of a wounded child, lying orphaned on the floor, and yet it's still not enough to save both of them.  
> But since light can exist without shadows, but not the other way around; Rogue is fine with the outcome; whatever it may be. Just as long as his light remains - a bright beacon to guide him home, even if an endless darkness was to swallow him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you guys,  
> sorry for keeping you waiting for so long....  
> But my right hand sustained 2nd and 3rd decree scaldings and thus typing was out of the question for quite a while... So when I was finally able to handle my lap-top again I kinda wrote this in a frenzy just to get all the pent-up ideas and HC out of my system...  
> And since I didn't really wanna keep you waiting any longer, I uploaded this thing in a hurry, without that much of a proofreading in the middle of the night. I'll keep rereading this fic tomorrow aprox. 100times and I hope I can rectify any typos or errors then, but for now, please enjoy Chapt. 7 of Sting's and Rogue's never ending nightmare.
> 
> I actually wanted to extend the chapter even further, but then I realized just how long it had already gotten, so I had to make a cut at this point. (Once again I'm being a tease, I know...) But that's what you get, when someone scalds your author with boiling mulled wine on a christmas fair.  
> Alas, I'm happy, to be back in actions, even if typing still hurts AF!
> 
> Chapter-title once again origins from an expressionistic poem, this time "Sonnenuntergang" ("Sunset") by Oscar Kanehl and translates to "No god watches over us".

The large hands singe Sting's skin with their relentless, brute touch, and even though the contact is limited solely to his arm, it's enough to have his stomach in cramps and his muscles in lockdown.  
For once he is almost grateful for being dragged along, for he isn't all that certain, if he had it in him to follow the direction he's being ushered to on his own accord.

Their Master had greeted him with a taunting, sly smile tugging horrifyingly at his lips and words dripping with scorn.  
“Did you sleep well, my boy?”  
Sting can only nod, jaws clamped shut and churning forcefully, although the dark circles around his eyes and the scary paleness of his skin belie his statement easily.  
“Splendid! Then you should be well-rested and more than ready to show me that you've learned your lesson!  
Get moving, I don't have all the time in the world to waste on you!”  
He hoists himself up from the behemoth of a chair that makes up his throne with surprising agility and grabs Sting's arm casually as he walks past him with a grip suitable to pulverize rocks.

They're halfway down the corridor leading to the dreaded, ominous door of despair, when Rogue suddenly crosses their path with his cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders and a dagger riding demonstratively at his hip.  
He bows his head curtly in greeting, gaze trained solely on Jiemma's face, before excusing himself with another short gesture of respect.  
“I'll be off then, Master.”  
The fleshy fingers around Sting's elbow clench bruisingly for a moment, before he regards the Shadow Mage with a look of utter despise and snarls:  
“You're still here?! Didn't I tell you, to leave right away? Get going, before I whip your lazy ass into moving!”  
Rogue does a good job in suppressing the flinch running through his body at the harsh words and only nods in consent; his usually proud and somewhat defiant behaviour reduced to shaky obedience and secretly disgusted compliance.  
His features harden, eyes cold and unreadable, before he bids his fare-well.  
“I'm sorry, Master! I'll make haste.” Without sparing Sting more than an impassive glance, he strides past them and down the hall with quick, determined steps.  
And although the calloused behaviour is nothing but an act, something he even suggested himself to throw Jiemma off their scent, having Rogue's eyes trail over him indifferently and cool like that, sends a dull ache pulsing through Sting's heart.  
His thoughts linger a second too long on the dark silhouette of his friend, thus, when Jiemma yanks him abruptly into motion, he would have almost staggered face-first into his back, if it hadn't been for invisible hands to break his fall.  
Straightening up, he looks around searchingly, but only finds the overwhelming form of his Master right in front of him, and by the untroubled, determined way he keeps on manhandling Sting down the hallway, it's clear, that he didn't even notice the blonde's mishap.  
So who...  
The footsteps of the Shadow Dragon Slayer already start fading in the distance, when he feels a soft, familiar touch ghosting over his skin.  
A tiny wisp of shadows caresses his cheek with a concealed touch and tousles his hair like a gentle summer breeze, before slipping down to give the slender fingers a reassuring squeeze.  
Then it vanishes - a silent shade on the wall- and the only reminder of this small token of solace is the waning sound of Rogue's heartbeat still echoing through Sting's ears.

An almost imperceptive sigh leaves his lips involuntary, nothing but a soft, innocent exhale, but the sound still has Sting reeling in shock, as he realizes, that he just gave himself away.  
But for once, luck is on his side, for their Master mistakes the situation altogether and thus gives Sting an unexpected opportunity to talk his way out of it.  
“Oh? What's that? Are you sad, perhaps? Are we having a nice little breakup? Or why wouldn't sweet, little Rogue so much as even look at you?”  
Jiemma's usually booming, aggressive voice suddenly comes out sickeningly sweet, warped by the mock of something another man would have dubbed concern, as he slams the small body against the wall with a mere flick of his wrist.  
“Or did you show him the new “skills” you acquired yesterday ? Did he turn you down in disgust?”  
A shimmer of frenzy flickers through the terrifyingly empty holes that serve the ogrish man as eyes, and he laughs mirthlessly at a joke only he can hear.  
Sting swallows heavily - the mere idea of ever forcing himself upon someone else already sickens him beyond imagination, but the suggestion of doing something like that to Rogue has his blood run hot with fury.  
So when he looks up to meet Jiemma's taunting gaze, his features are steeled with righteous wrath; his head held high and lips a taut, unforgiving line.  
“He wanted to hug me when I came back, but I pushed him away and told him, he shouldn't behave like a faggot. For fags are weak. And we do not tolerate weakness in Sabertooth. He hasn't spoken to me since.”  
The lie is a bold one, Sting is very much aware of that, but with all this blind, hot rage racing through his veins and the nausea, Jiemma's closeness evokes, he grinds the words out with an utterly convincing distaste.  
He finds his voice hoarse with pent-up hatred, repulsion and fear, yet he deems it strangely suiting and takes courage from the rough edge that had appeared in his speech over night.  
Pondering his findings later on will have him wondering, if the soft, light-hearted elation the new found abrasiveness has replaced, had been irrevocably lost somewhere in the dark cracks of damp, mouldy stones or within the blood-rushing silence between throaty grunts and messy, forceful kisses.  
Perhaps it'll stay there forever, entombed in the nothingness of the pit. Together with his childish ideas of innocence and love, trust and belonging. 

Jiemma looks him over with askance, blank eyes an enigma closed off behind bars and locks made of harshness, prejudice and cruelty, before his attention shifts to the massive oak-wood door and the room it seals.  
He ushers Sting through the gaping doorway and into the thick, oppressive blackness beyond, but the moment his foot crosses the threshold, a number of torches burst into flames, bathing the large chamber in a sickly, fleeting light.  
Once again the room is void of any furniture, save for rusty shackles dangling from the ceiling, the handcuffs crusted in something dark and flaking, that Sting only prays, might be rust.  
But the shade of red doesn't quite match...

Something stirs in the far-off corner of the room, where the light doesn't reach; the one still engulfed in swirling shadows and he spins around, gazing intently into the darkness in an attempt to spot the source of the noise.  
For a split second he almost expects Rogue's form to materialise in the blackness, but then his eyes catch a sliver of greyish-pale, slick skin and suddenly Sting knows all too well what lies ahead of him.

Though a nervous nausea spreads rapidly throughout his guts, the prospect of having to deal with those beasts doesn't repulse him all that much any more- a frenzied voice even seems to be laughing madly in relief at the far back of his mind, and if the blonde didn't have to endure all the things done to him in the past twenty-four hours, he would have definitely doubted his sanity.  
But as the things stand now, he barely pays it a heed.  
Only when the violent voice of their Master pierces through the ringing in his ears, does he even notice, that he had started chuckling quietly to himself.  
Jiemma looks at him oddly, before he pulls the boy closer with a harsh hand fisted into the collar of his shirt. When he had registered the small laughter, he doesn't comment on it, which Sting is incredibly grateful for.  
“I figure you already got to know the most recent addition to my private little menagerie...”  
A small draft of wind dances around the torches, daring the flames to flicker more wildly, and in the shifting light, Sting finally sees the creatures clearly for the first time.  
At first it's like a massive heap of twitching, jerking flesh; all mucus-covered and thick; then he can make out single entities. About two dozen of blind, mindless maggots the size of a small dog are crowded in the corner, crawling over one another and rolling around with slurping, wet noises.  
The vermin are eyeless, but a sucker tusked with countless razor-sharp teeth determines what could be counted as their head, and they feast on one another.  
All in all it's a ghastly sight to behold, and yet Sting stands his ground.  
Jiemma seems to be mildly surprised, but continues unperturbed.  
“Now then... I want you to kill every single one of them. Alone. In the darkness. I want you to use those sharp senses you Dragon Slayers always pride yourselves on and take them down. Oh, and don't even think of using you magic! As soon as there is so much as even the tiniest spark in here... well, you should remember the result yourself. You're gonna kill them with your bare hands!”  
Without further ado he shoves Sting roughly against the wall and heads for the door.  
He's already on the threshold, when he turn around again and adds a venomous: “You have one hour! And you better not think of quitting or bawling! You know how I might handle cowards and fags, now.”  
A flick of his wrist and the torches fizzle and die out, so that with a forceful slam of the door, Sting is alone in the dark with twenty-something monsters slowly closing in on him.

He goes perfectly still for a moment and calms his racing heart with a few deep breaths, then he strains his ears and nose on his surroundings.  
There are two maggots directly in front of him, three more a few feet behind. One of them is already bleeding -  
“That's the one, then!” He decides and circles around the vanguard with light, careful steps and makes for flanking his target, always trying to block out the unease gnawing at his resolve.  
When the stench of foul, dead flesh is strongest, he kicks down hard, but misses the creature by a few inches.  
“I wished I could have avoided that...” he mumbled to himself, before smashing his fist into the slick, flabby mass, eliciting a guttural noise of pain, as the thing tries to slither away.  
Disgust makes his hand hesitant and his determination crumble, and before he knows it, his grip on the vermin is faltering.  
It's rolling around in a mania, sharp teeth lusting for Sting's flesh and he knows, that if he doesn't kill the thing with the next blow, he's going to be in trouble. Either his target would wriggle free and bite or he'll fall prey to one of the three beasts approaching from behind.  
And yet- flashbacks and memories send tremors through his hands, causing his fist to shake and his muscles to slacken, as he forces himself to throw the punch.  
His hand flies out, but instead of the ugly feeling of cold, putrid flesh he feels... warmth? Like something incorporeal had firmly wrapped itself around his hand, amplifying his power but also shielding him from direct contact.  
There is still the sensation of the impact – much more forceful than he'd ever expected, what with his reluctance- and the maggot stills at once.  
There's something unmistakably familiar about the sensation, and when his nose picks up the well-known scent, he releases a breath, he didn't realise he was holding.  
“Sorry, I'm late!”  
With his keen ears kicked into overdrive by the deprivation of vision he has no trouble hearing the whisper from the shadows, even though Rogue just mouths the words voicelessly.  
“No, it's fine... Are you alright?” Sting answers in the same manner and a swift squeeze of his hand shows him, that he in turn had been understood as well.  
A squirming noise to their left indicates two creatures launching themselves at Sting simultaneously, but he manages to pin one down with his foot, and the next second his heel crushes the thing's head mercilessly. Then he grabs the other attacker, ready to smash it into the ground, when again a shadowy fist finishes the creature seemingly out of nowhere.  
“Where exactly are you?” The White Dragon Slayer inquires. “Could he be seeing you? I still don't know, how he manages to watch us and what exactly he can even see... So, be careful, okay?”  
“Sure. But I'm within the shadows, trying to keep close to you, and as long as I stay here, there's no way he could spot me. But what the hell are these things? They're gross as hell!”  
Sting swears, he can feel a shiver of disgust running through the nothingness surrounding him, and for a second it feels as if Rogue had curled around him protectively. The thought warms him from inside and even manages to coax a shy smile onto his lips, as he answers:  
“Beats me! Some creepy-crawlies Master seems to be keeping in his basement... Be careful, though, the beasts have some crazy chops! Don't let them bite you!”  
Then he moves on to grinding the next vermin into the dust.

They manage surprisingly well with the bigger part of the swarm, but as the fight drags on Rogue feels exhaustion weighing down on him with increasing pressure; staying in the shadows for longer periods of time always drained his magic rapidly, and they'd been slaying those things for the past thirty minutes now.  
He feels his movements getting heavier by the second, but even though there's only four of the creatures left, he refuses to leave Sting's side and pushes himself further.  
The blonde isn't faring much better, either. He can't feel his hands any more, limbs numb and muscles almost unresponsive from the prolonged contact with the slimy skin, his mind in disarray and panicked, and although Rogue's soothing presence keeps him from snapping, each touch brings back another bad memory.

One maggot suddenly winds around his leg and pulls itself upright, blind head nudging his crotch, and he jerks back with enough vigour to lose his footing, as he falls to the ground with a miserable yelp.  
Sensing victory, the vermin writhes over his lap and makes for his chest with erratic twitches of its floppy body.

Sting is gagging, but otherwise unable to move even a single muscle, as he feels the wetness of cold, vile slime trickle slowly, claimingly, through his shirt. Only a moment later, a scent of rotten, decayed flesh wafts into his face, indicating how alarmingly close the deadly sucker had come to his exposed neck- mere inches separating the soft skin from countless, greedy razors, craving to bury themselves into the tantalizing scent of young blood.

Then everything happens in a flash.

The creature pounces, ready to strike, Sting's arms get kicked out beneath his body, and he's falling flat onto his back, convinced that he's absolutely done for.  
But then the maggot gives a short screech of pain, before rolling off of his chest in a limp heap, as something sharp seems to be yanked out of its flesh.  
A gush of rancid smelling liquid drenches the front of Sting's shirt even further and for a moment all he can do is lie on the cold, damp ground in wide eyed wonder trying to progress how on earth he's still alive.  
A wild trembling takes a hold of his body, as adrenalin and relief mingle in his veins, causing his breaths to come out as some kind of odd mixture of laughter, gag, and sob.  
It takes only seconds for a strange feeling of warmth to spread beneath his back, before he feels a pair of arms wrap around his waist from the ground, while the sensation of being enveloped in everything that is distinctly “Rogue” returns and with it a soft whisper from the shadows.  
“Shh... It's okay... It's okay... I'm right here. I killed it...” 

It takes Sting some time to regain his bearing, but when he's finally pulled himself together, he notices that Rogue is breathing heavily and the hands still offering comfort through slow careful motions all over his back seem to be getting more and more solid, as if he was having trouble keeping up his shadow form much longer.  
A quick sniffing around tells him, that there's only one of the beasts still scurrying about and with utter amazement he recaps, that in the time he had dealt with ten maggots at best, Rogue had managed to take out all the other ones, without ever leaving his side.  
To any outside spectator it must have looked as if Sting had killed multiple creatures at once, and by forcing him flat onto his back a minute ago, he'd given his body enough momentum to make it appear, as if he had freed himself with one swift motion, while actually Rogue had made short work of the thing with his dagger.

He could only marvel at the prescient acting of his friend, grateful beyond words for his silent solace, and each strained breath almost causes him physical pain.  
“It's fine, I can manage with this one by myself! Please, get going, don't push yourself on my behalf! You still have a mission to complete, how are you going to pull this off when you're already running on empty?”  
“Don't trouble yourself with that for now. I told you, we're going to do this together and I will see you through till the end!” Rogue's openly panting now, breathing ragged with effort and not for the first time Sting curses his damn stubbornness and valour.  
In the end he decides for a head-on attack for the sake of wrapping things up speedily and, with the muffled wheezing sounds from the shadows hot at his heels, throws himself at the grub.  
It twists beneath him with a surprising force, the instinct to prevail fuelling its struggles, but in the end it's in vain.  
Concern for Rogue's well-being and safety has Sting forgetting all about trauma and repulsion, so he grabs the vicious jaws without mercy and yanks them apart with the strength of an enraged dragon- the thing screeches nastily, then lies still, as its head is basically torn apart.  
The White Dragon Slayer throws the carcass onto the floor and sinks to his knees with an exhausted sigh, head buried in his hands and limbs viciously trembling.  
Rogue quickly moves around him and with a start both realize, that the hand he extends to caress the suddenly damp cheek, is no longer a nebulous one of swirling shadows, but solid flesh and bone once again.  
Thundering steps on the corridor announce the approach of Master Jiemma, and neither knows if the death of the last maggot or the obvious presence of the Shadow Dragon Slayer has called him to the scene.  
“Go! Now! If he finds you in here we're both dead meat!”  
And finally, finally Rogue complies. With a swift bumping of foreheads and a low “Great work, buddy!” he forces his weary body into the shadows once again, hissing sharply at the strain, before starting to melt into the ground.  
Before he's completely vanished though, one of the felled creatures spasms in it's death struggle and something sharp pierces his leg, sending a jolt of white hot agony through his body, before the darkness swallows him up.

He emerges from the blackness in a back alley outside of the guild hall and collapses to the ground in a gasping heap, as he tries to collect his fleeting breath.  
His head is throbbing with a dull ache, probably from overexerting his abilities and he leans against a wall heavily for a minute, before the need to make haste urges him on.  
Of course his appointed mission hadn't been the usual delivery or monster-hunt quest, that would have allowed him to proceed at his own pace....  
No, to make sure he had him out of the Guild, Jiemma had assigned him to an escort-mission, meaning he had to meet the client at a certain time and location.  
Since they had dealt with the vermin quicker than he'd actually expected, he still has some hope, that the client was still waiting for him at the mentioned address, and given his dishevelled, somewhat ragged attire he could easily explain his tardiness by claiming he had been assaulted by thugs and carry out the mission with only a minor punishment from the Master if anything.  
But when he makes it to the rendezvous-spot, movements strangely sluggish and head pounding, he finds it deserted- just his luck, now, wasn't it.

With the client gone, it could only mean that Master Jiemma had in all likelihood already been informed about his failure, what left him with little means to avoid having him AND Sting in grave trouble.  
The beating he will be receiving for fucking up this mission was going to be a massive one, that much was granted, but now he had to make sure, that the Master wouldn't suspect him of disobeying his direct order in favour of coming to Sting's aid.  
It would be their both's untimely, violent end.  
That leaves him with only one possibility... his last resort.  
He had prayed for things not to come this far, but deep down he had always known, that fate wouldn't be this kind with him; it had forsaken him for most of his life, so why would it start giving a shit today out of all days?

He scans the crowded market place in front of him with vigilant eyes, until he finds what he searches at the mouth of a shabby looking alley.  
There, leaning listlessly against the walls, faces an epitome of boredom, loiters a gang of rowdy, shabby looking kids, two or three years older than him, currently killing time by kicking pebbles at a shattered window pane.  
With his steps as casual as the increasing buzzing behind his eyes allows, he makes for the group, trying really hard not to flinch as the bright sunlight almost blinds him and sends shock-waves of pain throughout his skull. 

“Hey, you guys! Wadda ya up to?” He asks, voice and speech as careless as their demeanor and meets the inquiring, harsh eyes of the boy he'd already recognized as their leader dead on.  
“Who'r you? Whaddaya wan?” He spits as he musters Rogue with suspicion.  
“Wanna earn some easy money?” The Shadow Dragon Slayer answers and he notices with a certain amount of smugness, that he's gained the beatnik's undivided attention now.  
“I want you to beat me up. Like for real. Just come at me with all you've got, I won't defend myself.”

“Whatcha mean, huh? Ain't any one runin' round tossin 'bout coins for geddin himself a bloody nose. So... what's the deal with ya punk?”  
The leader inches closer, posture less defiant but still careful as he tries to test the waters.

'I've got them on the hook... Now...' Rogue thinks to himself, before his whole attitude shifts into something desperate and pleading, as he averts his gaze and fidgets nervously with his hands.  
“Listen... I... I really need some kind of an alibi right now... An excuse...” he adds quickly when the thugs don't show any sign of understanding, “I... My dad asked me to deliver a purse full of juwels to the local bank... and I somehow lost it and... Anyways, I've gotta make him believe, that I got robbed by some felons and since I can't really beat myself up, that's the only thing I got left....”  
The teens look at him in bewilderment, smelling a trap where there actually isn't one, and Rogue's desperation grows for real.

“Please,” he's pleading with them, a feverish panic obvious on his brow, “he's gonna kill me, if I show up empty-handed! That's the only way for me to ever, ever go back home! I'm begging you! Take half of my money in advance, then take the rest later. Hell, knock me out cold, if you have to, and take from me whatever you see fit, just give me a good thrashing and be done with it!”

“Half of your money in advance, you say?” A freckled, stumped redhead asks. “What are you even waitin for, Seamus? We been trouncin' a heeluva lot folks for less reasons.”  
“Yeah, take them juwels and giv'is meagre ass the whalop'in he's asking for!” Another rather burly boy in his mid-teens pipes up.  
And suddenly the deal seems settled, as the leader, Seamus Rogue recalls, flings his fist at him without any warning whatsoever, and aims a hit directly at his stomach.

And though the Shadow Dragon Slayer gets flung back futher into the alley by a few feet, he remains upright and lowers his head for the next round of punches.  
The hits rain down on him, bruising his shoulders, back and chest, but it's still nothing compared to the burning heat, that singes his left leg or the severe pulsing behind his temples. And it couldn't hold a candle to Jiemma's brutish fists wrecking his flesh.  
He feels completely detached from his body, can almost see himself being beaten to a pulp in a narrow back-alley right next to the bustling market-place, and though it hurts like all hell, his magic gets into his way and starts healing most of the damage before some evidence of a battle can even form on his skin. This wouldn't do and Rogue knows it, but a small voice, probably the one responsible for self-prevail at the back of his mind, keeps screaming at him to stop.  
To 'stop before an irreparable damage is done; to not push himself now! Not now when he'd already sustained...'  
Sustained what? He wonders, but then he draws his thoughts back to the present and faces the gang with frantic eyes.

“That all you've got? Hell, if I'd known, what a bunch of weaklings you were, I'd sure spend my money elsewhere! Now, come at me like you mean it!”  
The condescending words seem to spurn the enraged punks into the next gear, for the punches now mauling Rogue's already battered skin are much less restrained and as the seconds pass and the ruffians notice his lack of defence, their leader manoeuvrers himself into Rogue's narrowing field of vision, and throws a nasty hook right at his chin. The Dragon Slayer tries to stay on his feet, swaying dangerously as his head is spinning and the world starts backing away, but to no avail.  
An especially hard blow to his midriff has his knees buckling beneath his pain ridden body, and the next kick aimed at his kidneys forces him down into the dirt, prone and barely clinging to consciousness.  
A pair of heavy leather-boots enters his blackening sight and a muted voice – the redhead, his hazy brain provides, although it's utterly meaningless- calls out to him. “Yo, loud-mouth... couldn't take it in the end, now, could'cha? Hope's been worth the headache... Anyways... have sweet dreams and don't eva bother us again, asshole!” With this the dirty, worn-down boot connects forcefully with Rogue's temple and after that he knows no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun, Dun, Duuuun....
> 
> Just to clear up some things... I headcanoned Jiemma to be somewhat able to see what's happening in the pit, but only to a certain extent, since it's dark AF in there, so he doesn't notice Rogue as long as he stays in the shadows. That's absolutely how things work now, because magic and because I make the rules here :-)
> 
> So, well that's it for now, but since I'm already working on the next chapter it won't be taking that long (as long as no one decides to mutilate me again).  
> Have a nice time and lovely holidays.
> 
> And as always, thanks for reading, commenting and kudo-ing. This is just the greatest thing in the world.  
> Be save, you guys.
> 
> Greetings, TGA


	8. Though dark this night, your voice will guide me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again Sting's fears play out under the cover of darkness, but this time no soothing hand reaches out to him.  
> And once vivid shadows fade to grey the light must shine brighter to bring them back.  
> Still shaken, still ready to break, yet his flame flickers wildly and his courage won't waver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right in time for Christmas!!  
> Here you go guys, Chapter 8 (this time for real :-) ) of... well, won't we say it all together now?  
> "Sting's and Rogue's never ending nightmare..."  
> And boy, did I suffer when writing this.  
> For the sake of future character-devellopment I had to hurt sweet little Rogue a little bit...  
> Maybe rather quite a bit... Srew that I needed Rogue one step from death's door, so the next Chaps. are nothing but shameless whump and Sting being a darling.

The massive door flies open with a bone-rattling bang and the torches ignite in a seizure of painfully blazing, aggressive red that penetrates dilated pupils like a glowing hot needle.  
Sting winces at the sudden onslaught of light after his eyes had been trapped in darkness nearly long enough for them to have forgotten all about their purpose, but when he senses the heavy steps of their Guild Master approaching, he blinks rapidly to rid himself of the pseudo-coloured after-image of a flaring super-nova still imprinted into his retina.  
When he's finally able to make out his surroundings, his eyes are met with a sight befitting of an full-grown battle field.  
The already filthy straw covering the ground is drenched in a vile looking, sickly-greenish fluid that smells of decomposition and festered meat, here and there charged with darker lumps of what might be brain matter or mesenteries.  
An acrid, putrid smell hangs thickly and low beneath the ceiling, clogging his airways and tingling his uvular, so that he has to suppress a wet gag with every last ounce of self-control he has left.  
All around him the floor is littered with mutilated carcasses, some of them having their intestines spilling like slick, messy ribbons.  
The last one he had killed has a grey-brown, clotted goo leaking from the massive wound splitting its skull and even though the sight grosses him out, Sting feels a certain satisfaction when he appraises their combined handiwork.  
Looking around, his gaze suddenly lodges onto a particularly deformed chunk of flabby tissue, that had once been a nasty, wriggling grub, and with incredulity he examines a stinger protruding from the flesh-pulp's rear. It hadn't even occurred to him, that the maggot-things might have been provided with such a sneaky and perfidious way of defence, and the way it glistens as dark liquid drips lazily from its tip is as mesmerizing as it is repulsive.  
Unfortunately he doesn't realize that, at second glance, the blackish ooze wouldn't appear all that black any more, but rather show the rich, deep red of fresh drawn blood, the same lively, warm shade as Rogue's eyes...

“I'd never thought you could actually pull through and kill them all, but colour me impressed. It seems like my little private lesson yesterday is, in fact, bearing fruits. I should have done this much sooner...”  
Jiemma's scornful voice disrupts Sting's wordless, disbelieving stocktaking of horror and death like the crack of a whip, and all at once something inside of the boy snaps.  
The wording has blind, raw fury expand rapidly in his heart and before he knows it, he finds himself kicking down at the carcasses feverishly and with tears barely kept at bay, until the bigger part of the swarm is nothing more than a coagulative puddle seeping into the mouldy straw, and still the agitation won't subside.  
He keeps on venting his hatred, disgust and helplessness onto what remains of the maggots, but even when the last vermin has been clobbered into an oozing gunk, he can't stop himself.  
So Jiemma does it for him.  
With a humongous fist grabbing the back of Sting's shirt he yanks him onto the slick floor and keeps him restrained by setting a massive foot, clad in heavy leather on his heaving chest.  
“Enough of that! Quit acting like a maniac and stop this ugly blubbering! Now go wash up, you look repugnant. Afterwards I want you to...”  
But Sting will never know, what exactly he was expected to do, for Jiemma's aggressive speech is interrupted by Minerva rushing through the door, dishevelled and out of breath, as if she had been running.  
“Father! Quick! Something must have happened! You're presence is requested at an emergency-conference of all Guild Masters in Fiore! The chairman of the Magic Counsel just contacted us via lacrima. The conference is all the way out in Clover so they want you to take the next train, if possible...  
It seemed urgent, there must've been an incident, involving a thing called “Acnologia” .”

Then the teens bear witness to a phenomenon, that had never occurred before; a sight so rare and unheard of that later on Sting will be wondering, if he had just imagined seeing it altogether.  
The cruel, merciless face of Master Jiemma falters in something that could almost be counted as fear, and his voice hitches ever so slightly, when he asks an incredulous: “What did you just say? Acnologia?”  
Without further explanation he whirls around and leaves the room with hasty steps and a vague aura of unease cloaking his broad form, leaving Sting and Minerva looking at each other with hostile eyes.  
A mirthless grin spreads on her face, as she scrutinizes his grime covered, hideous state, and she only follows her father, once she had bid him a mocking fare-well.  
“Obviously maggot-slime looks as good on your face as any other sticky body-fluid. You should consider wearing it more often.”  
She is gone, before the gooey lump of tissue Sting flings in fury can hit her.

The fact, that Jiemma has left for sure takes a while to register with Sting; more precisely it takes him a sixty-three steps climb from the basement to the third floor, approximately 25 meters of staggering along a deserted hallway and the sound of their door finally falling closed, for him to actively process that he's safe.  
It's a temporary relief at best, and with Minerva now in charge of the Guild a fragile one on top, and, yet, the queasiness in his stomach lifts and his legs give out from a sudden feeling of light-headedness.  
That's exactly how the Lector and Frosch find him; down on his knees, hands fisted into the dirty, stiff bangs and breath's coming in quick, erratic puffs that sound almost wheezing.  
Only after a couple of worry-stricken moments do they realize, that the string of unnatural noises leaving Sting's throat is, indeed, laughter.  
Laughter, insane and grotesque, that transforms into sobs the second Lector sets a sympathetic paw on his knee.  
“Is Sting hurt?” Frosch asks meekly as she tries to peek through the quivering fingers shielding the tear-stained face. The boy merely shakes his head, then he lets his hands fall away and reveals his troubled, bruised features.  
“No...” he mumbles hoarsely. “No, I'm … I'm fine. Yeah, I'm fine. Totally. Just need a shower and ...” he trails off, before he can actually say 'Rogue', even though it's nothing but the simple truth.  
With the Master gone all the way to Clover, they should have at least four days to take a breather for once- time that Sting direly needs to revert to some semblance of normality and he couldn't even imagine accomplishing that without the comfort and the support of his best friend.  
His dependence on the Shadow Dragon Slayer scares him for a moment, makes him wonder, if he's not becoming a burden, but then he remembers the softness in Rogue's eyes and the affection so, so obvious in each word directed at him and mentally scolds himself for being ridiculous.  
If their positions were exchanged, he'd do anything to ease the other's suffering without ever tiring of it and just as Rogue would walk through a wildfire for his sake, Sting would catch a bullet for him, without hesitation.  
And this actuality is equally beautiful and terrifying.

The afternoon drags on endlessly and Sting wonders if the hours had always passed this tenaciously, especially when he he had been in the company of his friends.  
Normally those rare hours spent leisurely with their Exceeds – scarce and few as they were- had mostly been over before they'd really begun, but now time itself seems to be as stagnant and indifferent as the monotone grey of the view outside.  
By now he's well past placating his nervousness with the make-believe of Rogue being alright.  
Screw that- he has worked himself into a panicked frenzy about an hour ago, and each minute passing without the tell-tale sound of light-footed steps echoing through the empty corridor gnaws at his mind and reminds him naggingly, that the other one should have been back much earlier.  
So, as the lethargic, darkening clouds spill their load and the rain pounds against the windowpane in a harsh staccato, he starts pacing around the bedroom in relentless, agitated patterns, not unlike a certain black haired Shadow Mage did not too long ago; maybe he even follows his exact same steps without ever realizing it.  
Dusk is falling rapidly now with the skies drawn and the autumn-air misty, but for once the prospect of the oncoming darkness doesn't bother Sting at all.  
'Maybe Master was actually right...' He thinks to himself humourlessly.  
The darkness wasn't something to be scared of - the things that happened under it's cloak, however, were a different story altogether.  
This, Jiemma's lesson had taught him well and yet, against all odds, he wouldn't learn about true fear from his tormentor as threatened, but from Rogue himself this very night.

Like before, one Dragon Slayer waits together with the cats for his missing half to return and he, too, feels concern eating away at his patience.  
Hence, when restless circling won't ease the nervous quivering any longer, and words get stuck in tremor-tight throats, Sting does the only thing he can think of to keep himself from another mental breakdown.  
And thus, even though he's been infidel for all his live, he prays.  
Harder than any believer had ever pleaded with any deity known to mankind; sincere, selfless hopes his “father of ours” and hot, agonizing tears his offering.  
He remains in the pious stance, head bowed and hands folded in a silent, desperate attempt to gain at least one god's attention, even if it was only for the blink of an eye.  
A moment passes, another one follows, and then the miracle happens. But the entity answering to Sting's desperate calling isn't a kind or a merciful one.

To the Exceeds the evening must seem like a tasteless, cruel copy of the previous one, for once again the approaching footsteps are staggering and unstable, causing the anxious excitement on the boy's face to give way to open, screeching horror, as he rushes for the door.  
Before he's even turned the knob, there's a thud against the wall and a groan-filled second later something heavy hits the ground hard.  
Sting is out in the hallway in a flash, Rogue's name spilling from his lips, and he darts over to the drenched figure that is reduced to a heap of disobeying, useless limbs sprawled onto the floor like an abandoned rag-doll.  
Falling to his knees next to his friend, he quickly eases the soaking wet cape off of his shoulders, and props the faint body up in his lap.  
“Rogue!! The hell happened to you? You alright?”  
He doesn't receive an answer; the Shadow Dragon Slayer only sinks into the solid wall that is Sting's chest and glances up at him with glassy eyes partially obscured by wet, black bangs.  
When the blonde reaches out to brush the unruly strands back, the heat radiating off the damp skin has shrill alarm bells going off in his head and the large number of fresh wounds does nothing to soothe his panicking mind.  
The bud of an especially violent bruise already blossoming on the boy's left temple is reason enough to consider concussion and his apathetic, drowsy state only adds to the presumption, but it doesn't explain the high temperature.  
Sting presses his hand to the pale brow and Rogue nuzzles into the cool palm by instinct, all the while he keeps gazing into concerned sapphire eyes; his look groggy and clouded, but still brimming with softness and affection.  
The skin on his forehead is too dry and almost pulsating with heat, whereas the vivid flush on his cheeks forms a dramatic contrast to his otherwise almost translucent pallor – both signs heralding a dangerously high fever.  
A fever too severe to arise from a simple cold and too sudden to occur due to an infected wound, so Sting hopes fervently, that the other boy has any clue what brought it about and would be able to answer, given the barely conscious daze he's in.  
The blonde shakes his shoulder lightly in an attempt to rouse him, before inquiring as calmly as possible in the current situation:  
“Hey, Rogue! You're almost burning up, man! You've got a pretty high fever, can you tell me what might have caused it?”  
It takes a moment for a spark of understanding to ignite in the unfocused glance, but when it does, Rogue's features contort with an imminent fear.  
“St'ng...” he grinds out with effort, as his whole body starts shaking and his breath hitches.  
The White Dragon Slayer fastens his hold on the weak form and pulls him closer, before whispering: “Yeah, I'm here. It's okay, I've got you. Everything is going to be alright, but I need to know, what happened!”  
However, Rogue only shakes his head jerkily and slurs:  
“No! ...God...St'ng...”  
It strains him visibly and for a moment his body goes limp in Sting's arms, but he forces his swollen lids open, gaze pleading and urgent.  
“Food... leggod... St'ng...” it's the most he can do and even though he forces each syllable out with herculean effort, it's no use; Sting still can't make sense of his words.  
He just tries to sooth his friend, who's groaning and shaking his head in something that might be frustration, but with the general confusion cloaking his demeanour it's hard to tell.  
This wouldn't do any good, the White Dragon Slayer realizes, for Rogue was too weak and delirious to give a coherent answer, anyway, and the sooner they got him out of the draughty hallway and into a warm cocoon of blankets, the better.  
For a split second he considers hoisting his friend upright to support his ailing form around the waist, but one look at the dear face – open and trusting albeit all the distress obvious on his brow – has him dismiss the idea immediately.  
Rogue deserved better than to be manhandled into their room like some inanimate cargo and given the vulnerable, miserable state he's in, Sting has to make sure, he would ease his sufferings to his utmost capability.  
So he gets a secure hold on the other's thighs, lifts the listless form into his arms and, although it takes some effort, gets to his feet, careful not to aggravate the countless injuries more than absolutely necessary.  
The decision was the right one, he realizes immediately, for Rogue is little more than dead weight cradled protectively against his chest and lets out a small groan of pain upon being joggled into a more secure position.

The Shadow Dragon Slayer struggles feebly for a moment, but when Sting hushes him quietly, rests his head wearily right above the other's beating heart and his troubled eyes flutter closed – he feels so, so tired.  
He's suddenly completely at ease with the thought of never waking up again, when the rhythm of this very pulse was to lull him to sleep.  
Then again some inner voice tells him, that he couldn't do this, for it would shatter the heart he treasures so much beyond repair. And therefore he endures and clings to consciousness, even though he's in agony.  
Sting makes for their room as quickly as possible without upsetting the dire wounds of his precious burden and eases him onto the mattress ever so very gently, that Rogue barely notices he's being laid down for a second.  
But then the arm around his shoulder shifts and a cautious hand comes to cradle his head, before guiding him down onto the fluffiest pillow known to mankind.  
The fingers retreat, but not without a small caress to his burning cheek and he chases after the touch helplessly; the hand, however, is busy elsewhere.  
He blinks repetitively, trying to dispel the veil of fog obscuring his mind and his numb lips move in a soundless attempt to speak, but both with little success.  
If he had been even a little bit more lucid, he would be annoyed by his body's incapability, but now he just abandons his fruitless endeavours and trains his drooping eyes on Sting, watching his each and every move hazily, but somehow unable to fully understand what the other one was up to.  
Something pink enters his field of vision, nuzzling into his side, but he lacks the energy to reach for it.  
“Frosch!” Sting's voice penetrated the mist, “Get a dry change of clothes! Lector, you get some hot water, a cloth and the first-aid-kit.” There is scurrying somewhere in the background and the blond tuft of hair returns in his narrow line of sight together with the gentle hand, once again reaching for his brow, before petting his cheek.  
“We're gonna get you patched up in no time, I promise! Just.. tell me when I hurt you or something! Okay?” Rogue is too transfixed on the trembling in the forcefully calm voice and the dull ache of guilt it initiates in his chest, to make out what's being said, but he registers the raising intonation and recognises it as a question.  
'Questions need to be answered' his juggled brain comes up with, so he nods his head and hopes it was the right thing to do.  
It was, obviously, for Sting releases a short breath and combs through his hair with tender fingers, allowing him to lean into the touch.  
“Alright, then. I'll remove your shirt, keep still....”  
Rogue doesn't get much of the following words, but the steady rise and fall of Sting's voice is like soothing balm to the increasing chaos threatening to drown his mind, and if it hadn't been for the constant little comforting gestures trailed over his skin, the sudden onslaught of cold air to his bare body would have thrown him into a state of panicked frenzy.  
The shocked gasp that escapes the blonde's lips at the sight of his chest, however, pulls him almost back into the present, at least close enough for him to get a grasp of the situation.  
A heavy silence settles between the two of them, the sweet caresses stop, as Sting's fingers lock up in a quivering rigour and his eyes trail disbelievingly over the countless bruises, contusions and cuts littering the milk white skin.  
“Rogue... how did that...” his voice is oh so terrified and small when he adds:  
“Did that happen because you had to help me? Tell me, did you get hurt this bad because you ran out of magic and something went wrong on the mission? Rogue!! Did this happen because...”  
The White Dragon Slayer has tears rising in his eyes, tears that glitter in the lamp light and somehow hurt more than any kick or hit Rogue has received today.  
He wants to offer comfort and forces his heavy arm to reach for a wet cheek, and nearly even makes it, but the small gesture is enough to send the room spinning around him and his arm goes slack.  
Sting catches his slumping hand and lifts it to his face, nuzzling the weak fingers gently, and effectively erases the vertigo, what causes bloody, burst lips to crack a crooked, terrible smile.  
Squinting up at an equally bruised, scared face - scared, beaten but thank goodness unbroken and so, so dear to him- one single thought takes shape in the swirling mess that is his mind and since he's afraid, that the darkness creeping in might swallow this one as well, he words it aloud:  
“Tot'lly worthid!”  
Then there's only the sickening sensation of falling into an endless sea of black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and all your lovely comments and support!  
> I hope all of you guys have a wonderful Christmas and receive all the love in the world.
> 
> Be safe and as happy as you can get.
> 
> Greetings, TGA


	9. A candle, waning in the twelfth hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A heart-beat quietens, a soul is lulled to sleep...  
> Still in the light, Sting pleads and hopes and struggles, to keep the dying embers from slipping through his longing, frantic hands; to keep his greatest blessing from slipping into the shadows and out of his reach.  
> Trapped in deepening darkness, Rogue searches for a spark, but finds only despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, you guys!  
> I hope, the holidays treated you kinder, than I have treated my precious boys in the following Chapter.  
> And I'm almost sorry... Almost...  
> Still, Rogue's situation got pretty dire and we'll see, if Sting makes it back in time...
> 
> Spoiler alert:  
> Just kidding... I could never ever finish off my favourite FT-Character of all times. At least not right now *chuckles darkly and starts sobbing two seconds later*
> 
> But lets play a fun little game called "Guess my profession" after reading this Chap., for when I was done writing, I noticed, that quite a lot of my daily field of work had actually wormed its way right into the story :-)
> 
> By the way, since I had been quite busy throughout the holidays (it's called "time between the years" in germany, btw, and I didn't get the luxury of having the time off), the Chapter turned out a little shorter than usual, but I'm already working my way through Chap. 10, so you won't have to wait that long again.
> 
> And now: Have fun with Sting's and Rogue's never ending nightmare part 9.  
> (Should I make this an official tag, or should I just change the title altogether, what do you say?)

It starts with a small, barely audible whimper right as Sting cleans a large-scale abrasion on Rogue's flank with slow, careful motions.  
For a moment the blonde abandons his task and reaches out gently to card through the damp, black strands and caresses a soft, feverish cheek, while whispering:  
“Yeah, I know, this must hurt... I'm sorry. Please bear with it just a little longer! I'm almost done here and I'm sure the meds will kick in soon!”  
He sincerely hopes he's right, for the antipyretics he'd guided past blueish, impassive lips nearly an hour ago are taking their sweet time to show some effect and even though he's not all that familiar with first aid and emergency-medication, the lack of any improvement concerning Rogue's state whatsoever starts freaking him out.  
Still, Sting can't help but be amazed by the amount of forethought his friend had exerted when stocking their drug-cabinet and now he is thoroughly grateful, that he had been forced to learn about the most prevalent agents and their correct application.  
Furthermore, the Shadow Dragon Slayer had insisted on buying syrups, liquids or otherwise effervescent pharmaceutical forms whenever possible, to enable medication even when asleep or in a daze, after Sting had suffered a severe concussion for the first time.  
Though the blonde doesn't remember, the Exceeds told him, that Rogue had watched over his fitful, pain-ridden slumber for fourteen hours straight, unable to do much more than wetting the cloth on his forehead and gently coaxing him into drinking small sips of water whenever he had opened his hazy eyes for more than a second of miserable groans.  
As soon as Sting had been up and about again, he had been dragged out by a restless, quite upset Shadow Dragon Slayer and they'd spent nearly one hour at a pharmacy nearby, where he'd looked at the shelves with only mild interest, while his friend had literally absorbed each and every advice the white-clad Lady had given concerning the small mountain of bottles, sachets and blister packages littering the counter.  
Upon returning home, Rogue had made him sit through a lengthy lecture about the correct use of each drug, but knowing the White Dragon Slayer oh so very well, he had also labelled every package with the respective indication and instructions concerning the dosage, not only for the two of them, but also for their Exceeds, and right now Sting can't even start to give words to his level of warm admiration.

So he runs his hand through thick ebony locks again, brushing back unruly, stray tresses before he tucks them behind the soft curve of the other's ear and his fingertips ghost over the smooth skin lovingly, in a meagre attempt to offer at least a small gesture of comfort.  
Rogue, however, jerks away with his brow clenched in discomfort, while a ragged, forceful gasp has his breathing hitch in apparent pain.  
“Hey, shh... You'll feel better soon! It's fine, nothing can hurt you now! I'm right here and I'll make sure everything is going to be okay!”  
Sting tries to sooth, his voice as low and steady as the increasing panic worming its way into his words allows, but it's no use whatsoever.  
A miserable groan, much louder this time, accompanied by short, erratic puffs of air, escapes the boy's throat while he starts tossing around, throwing his head left and right, as if trying to dodge some kind of immediate threat.  
Unintelligible, slurred words spill from the dry, cracked lips and by the general tune of terror and fright obvious in Rogue's whole behaviour, he was probably haunted by fever-fuelled nightmares, his mind unable to distinguish between reality and the horrors hidden deep inside his subconsciousness, any more.  
The helplessness almost crushes Sting, as he can't follow his friend into the realm of his own personal hell, can't shield him from whatever visions were to plague him and each whimper, any flinch hurts him like a fist to the stomach.  
But then he hears his own name muttered with such an immense amount of despair and anguish, followed by a string of “no, no!” getting louder and louder, that something inside his currently rather unstable mind seems to come undone.

He starts patting Rogue's flushed cheeks repetitively and has to restrain himself from slapping his flailing friend in an attempt to wake him from the apparent torture, but the dark haired boy shies away from the touch unconsciously and presses himself up against the wall as his whole body starts trembling.  
Sting holds him down, only reluctantly adding force to keep the thrashing form from injuring himself even further, all the while the increasing amount of delirious panic his grip elicits, only doubles the guilt and the self-reproaches currently mauling his heart.

Without thinking he pulls his friend into his arms, gently rocking him in an attempt to loosen the rigour that had befallen his muscles, while he pets his hair and pleads with sobs ripping through his voice:  
“Oh god, I'm so sorry! This is all my fault! Rogue, please wake up! Please... it's just a dream!  
Rogue! It's okay, you're safe! Nothing can hurt you, just... just... wake up!”

Rogue, however, restless and frightened into a full-blown seizure, shows no sign of understanding or coming to, only whispers Sting's name again, this time defeated and oh-so-very heartbroken, before his struggling ceases and his body abruptly slackens in the distraught embrace.  
For a moment the blonde nearly wants to sigh in relief, is already guiding the now limp form back down, but then he notices the hot, heavy tears catching in long, black lashes and his vision blurs in compassion.  
Again Sting reaches out to console his upset patient by caressing his hair, telling him that everything was okay, that he himself was RIGHT HERE, completely unharmed and safe, that nothing happened to him...  
In vain. 

The Shadow Dragon Slayer gasps for air forcefully, each breath hard-won and fleeting, as sobs wreck his chest and his hands reach weakly for something beyond the darkness clouding his mind.  
His lids open, only a hair's width, and still, it's enough for Sting to notice how unsteady and glazed those usually keen, red eyes appear, even through the vivid shimmer the lamp casts onto the layer of unshed tears, has them glimmer and shine like rubies.  
He takes a hold of the searching fingers, gently, non-restraining, trailing his fingertips over quivering palms, before easing them back down onto the comforter once again.  
Rogue let's out a quiet whimper, digits twitching, then shudders, as another painstakingly raw sob rises in his throat.  
And Sting is suddenly sure, that this is his personal punishment for being a worthless, pathetic weakling, who couldn't fend for himself, who had to rely on his best friend to always have his back and now it's pay-day and Rogue is the one who's being presented the bill.  
He loathes himself with passion, rages at himself, curses and insults his abilities beyond words; goes even as far as hating on the simple fact of being born- but the idea that he wasn't at fault here in the slightest doesn't even cross his mind.  
It takes another wheezing fit to tighten its unyielding grip around Rogue's already sore throat, to tear him from the onslaught of self-reproach and utter disgust, suddenly feeling shame crawl into his consciousness.  
Right now was neither the place, nor the time to give in to self-pity; right now he had to take care of Rogue; he could always dwell on how much exactly he despised himself later on.  
But here was his best friend - the dearest, most valuable thing in existence- semi-conscious and in agony, so the feeble, once again writhing form took utmost priority.

Pointless sounds like “hush” or “shh” fall from Sting's blubbering mouth in a seemingly endless loop of utter helplessness; and the promise, that “everything was going to be alright, if only he would WAKE UP” has already lost any meaning to him, because like before it doesn't help shit.  
Thus, though it torments him with red-hot fangs, Sting resigns to cleaning the angry wounds all over the beaten body again, so he could at least provide this small act of aid, insufficient and clumsy though it may be.  
He tries hard to focus on the task at hand, not getting distracted by shivers and sobs; chokes and tear-stains, but finds himself failing miserably.  
All the while the burning heat beneath his fingers is a constant reminder, that the drugs still haven't kicked in and by now he starts doubting that they eventually will.

“Maybe there is an infected wound somewhere after all... Have you checked him over properly?” Lector pipes up quietly, having Sting realize, that he had mumbled his pondering aloud; for how long he's been doing that, however, remains a mystery and he finds that with the situation at hand he doesn't give a rat's ass on appearing even remotely sane.  
The suggestion of wound-inflammation is actually a quite plausible one, for it would explain the lack of effect from this respective agent.  
He remembers dully that this one only reduced the fever and the pain, but didn't act as an anti... what was it called? Antiphlogistic? Antibiotic?  
It didn't treat an inflammation or infection and whatever the correct term might be, could go suck itself somewhere else, thank you very much.  
But the wounds covering Rogue's chest and abdomen, albeit looking quite painful, don't strike him as cankerous or oozing...  
So he applies a copious amount of a pain-soothing ointment to the last bruise left undressed; one that spreads over the bigger part of the muscular ribcage and resembles the shape of a heavy boot far too much for comfort, before he makes for checking the willowy, yet well-toned legs.  
Upon removing the shredded remains of what had once been trousers, however, Sting comes across a sight that has him cursing horribly, while all blood drains from his face.

There, on Rogue's left shin he finds the cause of the fever as well as the delirious stupor his companion is in: marring the pale skin is a deep puncture that radiates with heat, the swollen edges oozing a thick trickle of half clotted blood, while a purplish ring seems to spread rapidly around the wound.  
With a nauseating sinking of his stomach he remembers the stinger dripping with what he now knows had been his friends blood, and for a second he stares at the injury in disbelief- could it be?  
Poison?  
But then again, with those beasts being Jiemma's creatures, it shouldn't even surprise him, that the things were, indeed, venomous, and he starts kicking himself mentally for not making the connection earlier.  
Rogue HAD been trying so desperately to tell him...  
He hadn't called out to him or God, no, he'd been attempting to let him know, he “GOT STUNG!” His fucking LEG GOT fucking STUNG and he just didn't get it...

One glance at the sting and a palm pressed to the burning forehead is enough to convince him, that they needed a healer and an antidote as quickly as possible, for if he wasn't very much mistaken - what he prays for fervently, but when did that ever work out in their favour?- Rogue's pulse was getting faster and weaker by the second.  
“Lector! We gotta find a healer, ASAP! He's...”  
his voice breaks as panic tightens his throat, “I think he's been poisoned! Quick, you gotta ta..”  
For a second he stalls, trying to clear his mind and make the right decision here; too much was at stake for him to cave to despair and the frenzied mistakes it might bring in its wake.

And though choosing Lector to get him to the healer was the natural thing to do, it would leave Rogue in Frosch's care and the sweet little darling was already frightened out of her wits; an arising emergency was out of the question for her to handle.  
Better entrust this task to Lector for the moment, he couldn't fare much worse than Sting anyway.  
“No, wait! Lector, you're gonna stay here! Clean the injury as careful as possible and make sure you change the cloth on his forehead as soon as it gets warm.  
I'll be back soon, I promise! Come on, Frosch, we're gonna get Rogue some medicine! It won't take long!”

The green cat nuzzles her best friend's shoulder gently, before pawing his hair:  
“Fro will come be back very soon, Rogue! Please hang in there, we'll make you feel all better, Fro promises!”  
She's crying meekly, while the Shadow Dragon Slayer tilts his head groggily into her direction, as if asking for the petting to continue.  
Sting joins the two cats at the side of Rogue's sickbed once again for a moment, takes a gentle hold of cold, limp finger and presses a lingering kiss to bruised knuckles.  
Leaning his forehead against the other one's, the fever almost blistering his skin, he breathes a tender: 

“Be brave, just for a little longer!” 

and trails a soft touch over chiselled cheekbones, bruised temples and the almost aristocratic jaw; still hoping that at least some of the care and affection might penetrate the hazy fog clouding his friend's mind.  
His tears fall onto heavy eyelids, dark and restless as they twitch erratic, and follow the dried up trails still carved into the taut face.  
Then he gives Lector a firm nod and, trusting Frosch to carry him safely, hurls himself out of the window and into the night.

The woman opening the door to the forceful, frantic banging seemed vaguely familiar, but Sting couldn't quite place her; still something buried deep beneath layers upon layers of blurry, almost forgotten memories stirred at the sight of honey-blond, long hair and observant, hazel eyes.  
Warm, sympathetic eyes, that widened when met with a distressed, terrified look and tears tumbling down pale, scratched cheeks.  
He'd been ushered inside with soft, comforting motions and when a mess of sobs and chaotic words spilled from his trembling lips, gentle fingers had wiped his tears away and petted his head, until he had calmed down enough, to answer the straightforward, simple questions.  
He'd described the maggots as precisely as possible, but already after a few characteristics given the healer gasped audibly and hurried off, rummaging around somewhere deeper inside the store, before returning with a couple of potions and a dark, well-used leather-bag.  
“Your friend got inflicted with lich-grub poison... It isn't deadly, at least not immediately, but when left untreated it causes a fever, that in most cases just keeps on rising, until the patient succumbs to circulatory- or organ failure.  
From your description we can presume, that he had been stung about six hours ago, so his temperature is most likely dangerously high by now. He needs the antidote within the next hour, together with some strong antipyretics and antibiotics, for the wound is most likely infected, given the state you witnessed – and the last thing he needs right now is a sepsis on top of everything else.  
We'll have to make haste, so please, lead the way!”  
She had already been wrapping her thick cloak around the slender shoulders, when Sting had interrupted her in utter panic:  
“No... you... you can't come with me! Just sell me the meds and tell me what to do... “  
Her concerned, melodic voice had broken through his frantic ranting with disbelieve, as she had tried to scrutinize his words, but when her gaze had trailed to his exposed shoulder and the stark white Guild Mark it showed off, she had gone quiet.  
Something very soft and sad, almost like deep, remorseful grief had suddenly entered her features and before he even realized it, Sting had been pulled in; had all at once found himself in the comforting, gentle hold of someone, whom he might have called mother, in another, kinder life.  
But feeling the crushing burden of responsibility being lifted from his shoulders; knowing there was finally an adult around, to take over and guide him, to provide safety and care, even for one short, fleeting moment, had him bawling again like the child that he actually still is and yet never really got the chance to be.

“Oh, Sting, my poor, poor boy!” The Lady smells like a summer-meadow, sweet and warm and hazy, as she lets him cry against her shoulder, hands soothingly trailing over his back.  
“Your fate had been a cruel one, I understand that now. I know one thing or two about the way, Jiemma runs his Guild. And I know from a previous experience, that you're not allowed to seek out healers or other services from outside without the Master's explicit consent... I've heard about the way, he treats the members... I won't pry, and I don't want to get you into a precarious situation... You must have endured enough pain throughout the years.  
You had to be strong for so, so long... And now the one most important to you is in grave danger...”  
She had stroked his hair, and, as Sting calmed down and only sniffles were to be heard, gripped his chin and looked into his eyes with an intent, wise gaze.  
“Rogue is as strong and stubborn as you are. If you follow the instructions, he will pull through, I'm absolutely sure! The fever escalates mostly around the eighth hour after the initial poisoning, so you should be swift, but don't worry, there's still enough time. Here's what you've got to do....”

Only now, when speeding back towards the Guild Hall, with Frosch trying her hardest to maintain velocity, even when the strong winds kept on pushing her back, Sting begins to wonder, if he ever gave their names...  
But then again, this wasn't something to concern himself with right now, the only thing that mattered were the five bottles securely tucked into his vest; the smooth glass against his chest a constant reminder that he carried Rogue's very life right above his racing heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, for now.  
> I know, I'm a horrible human being for hurting Rogue that much and for causing Sting so much pain, but be prepared, things might go from bad to worse... Just saying.  
> I still hope, your new year started as good and pleasant, as possible and I give all my best wishes, greetings and thanks to my dear readers.  
> You are a blessing!  
> Be safe and have a good time,
> 
> So long,  
> TGA


	10. Lullaby for a dwindling heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some would say, that time can heal all wounds, but in the dead of night, Sting finds, that neither time nor love can bring back, what is slowly fading in his hands.  
> And with every hour the candle dims.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, wow, would you look at this oversized, angsty fucker disguising itself as the next Chapter...  
> But I was writing in a mania (what else would I do, when I had to spend the third weekend in a row on emergency-duty)  
> and thus didn't even notice, just how long it had gotten.  
> Well, consider it some sort of repayment for the rather short one, last time.  
> As always, comments and kudo's are highly welcomed and fuel my fingers :-)  
> So, without further ado:  
> The never ending nightmare Pt.10.

Sting knows, that things had taken a turn for the worse, as soon as his eyes catch a glimpse of Lector's face; tense with anxiety and clenched tight in sorrow.  
He finds his gruesome assumptions confirmed upon dashing over to Rogue's bed, where the Shadow Dragon Slayer has curled up in a fetal position as violent tremors run through his weak body.  
“It started about fifteen minutes ago...” Lector explains quietly, voice teary and unusually small.  
“He'd been restless ever after you left, tossing and turning, and then suddenly he was writhing and shivering like mad... I....” the Exceed trails off, fright obvious in his whole demeanour, before adding even lower:  
“I couldn't do anything... I cleaned the wound best as I could, but Rogue just wouldn't keep still and...” His words die down to a sad, worn-out whisper, before admitting:  
“He only kept calling for you... And I had no idea, what to do, Rogue didn't react.... either mumbled or cried your name... So I... I just...”  
Finding even loud-mouthed, boasting Lector in a shell-shocked state of speechlessness does nothing to calm Sting's overwrought nerves, rather adds another rock-load of breath-stealing trouble to the mountain already bearing down on his small shoulders, and yet, he manages to keep his hand from shaking as he scratches the furry head affectionately.

“It's alright, Lector! You did a great job, you hear me! We got the antidote and a couple of strong drugs from a healer, so it'll be fine!” And, because Sting is in an equally dire need of a reassurance, a promise that things would somehow turn out alright, he repeats his statement once again, much softer this time; barely even a sigh, but all that much more of a prayer:  
“It'll be fine!!”  
Then he focusses on Rogue, a tight, trembling ball made of quivering limbs, snatchy breaths and violently clattering teeth, although he is already huddled beneath a heap of blankets.  
The White Dragon Slayer wastes no time gaping, but, remembering the healer's thorough, caring instructions, gives Rogue's quaking, bruised shoulder a firm shake, hoping against all odds, the other boy would at least show a rudimentary level of awareness.  
And, gods be thanked, when blood-shot lids open every so slightly, there is a spark of lucidity flickering through the glassy gaze.  
The pupils, however appear dilated and Rogue flinches, when the light hits his face, clenching his eyes shut with a whimper, until Sting moves in front of the lamp and strokes his hair.  
“Rogue, hey, wake up! Look at me!” He coaxes quietly, while bringing an unsteady, clammy hand to his lips to caress the lifeless palm with a feather-light kiss.  
The Shadow Dragon Slayer pries his lids open with effort, blinking blearily, before his darting, confused glance finds Sting's and the distress wanes slowly.  
“Sting...” His voice is nothing more than a strained whisper, almost drowned by the rustling of leafs outside and his lips, already cracking with dryness, break once again, leaving a single droplet of blood trickling down his chin.  
Sting reaches for a clean cloth and dabs the split cautiously, before gently applying a copious amount of a soothing balm to the sensitive skin.  
And once the initial roughness is gone, he finds Rogue's mouth pliant and somehow intriguing beneath his touch, so he continues trailing the pad of his thumb over the soft bottom lip, even when there isn't any balm left to spread.  
The Shadow Dragon Slayer squints at him hazily before pressing something that might have been a peck to the caressing fingers; the shivers running throughout his whole body, however, make it hard to tell.  
“Sting...” He breaths again, even lower this time, while keeping his groggy gaze trained on the blonde's face.  
“'m cold... Wh-Why'sid so cold in'ere?”  
A miserable fit of quivers wrecks his form again, causing Sting to sneak an arm around tense, trembling shoulders before carefully lifting Rogue into an almost sitting position.  
He wraps him up in another warm, fluffy blanket, then slides down behind him and allows his friend to rest his weary body against Sting's firm chest.  
The blonde makes for rubbing the leaden arms in an attempt to offer at least some warmth to his ailing companion, when he notices the enormous heat seeping through his shirt, right where the other's head is nestled against his shoulder.  
“Shit, the fever seems to be rising again...” he mumbles, before reaching for the first of three bottles he has already positioned on the night stand.  
He lets his hand ghost over Rogue's smooth, soft cheek and pleads gently :  
“Hey, I need you to drink this for me. Think you can do that?”  
All the while his fingertips keep on stroking the beloved face in a pitiful attempt to ease the frightened tremors.  
He receives a shallow, small nod before the raven-haired head sinks back limply and pale lips part, what cues Sting to instil him with the first bottle, the one with the antidote, careful not to drain the vial too quickly; rather lets a small amount trickle down Rogue's tongue and waits patiently for him to swallow, before repeating the action.  
The first one goes down smoothly, but when he's almost done guiding the second bottle safely down a parchment dry throat, the bitter taste of the antibiotic has Rogue splutter and gag pathetically, and for a second Sting freaks out at the possibility of his friend throwing everything back up.  
So he quickly presses a glass of water against the wheezing lips, and while the Shadow Dragon Slayer gulps it down greedily, rubs soothing circles all over his back, until the violent hacking thankfully subsides.  
The coughing fit, however, drained what little strength Rogue seems to have left and his body slackens in Sting's firm embrace, head sagging heavily against the muscular chest, as he breaths:  
“Sting...? What's... Why'sid getting so dark?”  
There is trepidation in his voice, a primal, irrational fear and Sting feels it clawing at his heart with an icy touch, too.  
His best friend is slipping through his fingers, into a darkness he couldn't follow and he doesn't know how to deal with this whole situation, but it's Rogue's life, that is dangling on the faintest of strings, the most beloved thing in his world, so he has to try.  
Thus he slaps the overheated cheek in panic, maybe even a bit harsher than actually necessary, but he pulls his friend back from the brink of unconsciousness, keeps him awake for the crucial handful of seconds, that it takes to empty the third bottle, the antipyretic, while his hands rubs along Rogue's gorge carefully, to trigger the swallowing reflex.  
Right after he feels the Adam's apple bob beneath his fingers, another barely audible whisper falls from the numb lips and the words almost cripple him with fear:  
“Dark... So dark...”  
The hoarse voice dies down and Sting can actually see the light leaving the warm, wine-red eyes, before heavy lids slide shut, and this time they refuse to open again, no matter how frantic the blonde shakes the lax shoulder or calls his name.  
The only thing that keeps the White Dragon Slayer from a full blown mental break-down is the fact, that he had successfully managed to apply the drugs, at least the most essential ones, so that now he just had to make sure, his precious patient would pull through the next two hours.  
It's but a small silver lining in the pitch-black sky, and yet Sting reaches for it with desperate, trembling hands and an entreaty in his blurring eyes.  
He eases his arms around Rogue's waist and pulls the unconscious form closer, buries his face in dark, soft tresses and inhales shakily, before pressing a loving kiss to the raven-hued crown.  
Allowing himself a short-lived second of comfort, he keeps the lifeless figure cradled against his chest a little longer, until a small groan reminds him, that he was probably still in an unbearable amount of pain and needed rest.  
So he guides his friend back down, mindful of propping him up with a small mountain of pillows, to keep his head elevated and ease his laboured breathing, then he draws up a chair, and prepares for a night of anxious waiting.

Half an hour passes.  
Half an hour, where Sting has to change the wet cloth on Rogue's brow far too often for comfort...  
It seems as if the water evaporated the second the fabric touched his dry, burning forehead and there is absolutely nothing he can do to sooth the merciless fever-dreams once again playing out in front of unseeing, glazed eyes.  
One of his hands is constantly entwined with cold, unresponsive fingers, relentlessly trailing small caresses over the cracked knuckles, while the other one dabs the almost gaunt face, trying to dispel some of the miserable heat rolling off the flushed skin.  
He fervently prays for the meds to kick in; for the slightest sign of improvement and he would gladly take on the fever and the pain, if only it gave Rogue at least one single moment of relief.  
But once again his prayers are mocked by a cruel and remorseless being; for all of a sudden Sting detects the already quick pulse of the Shadow Dragon Slayer picking up speed, while his breathing becomes ragged and struggling.  
And before Sting can do much of anything, except for tightening his hold around a twitching hand, the frail form in front of him starts convulsing horribly.  
It seems as if each and every muscle in Rogue's body has gone into rigour, as he spasms uncontrollably, while unintelligible sounds of severe pain leave his lips.  
His eyes fly open, wide and nearly bulging out, but the disorientated, uncomprehending expression indicates, that his mind is trapped some place dark and far away, unable to recognise his surroundings.  
It's a sight right out of a nightmare, and Sting almost expects rivers of blood to flow from a gasping mouth, as Rogue arches his back up, while his arms twitch and jerk violently.

Sting is lost.  
This was something he had no idea how to handle and he's absolutely convinced, that Rogue was going to die, right here and now and there was not a thing in the world he could do about it.  
The few moments it takes the febrile-seizure to wreck the helpless, faint body with wave upon wave of cramps will forever be engraved in his memory and he will deem them the longest, most unforgiving seconds of his life.  
But then the fit dies down as abruptly as it begun – a last choked intake of air, a final shudder running through the exhausted form and then the Shadow Dragon Slayer lies still.

Too still.

All of a sudden his breathing has become too soft for Sting to detect and with the world spinning around him in a whirlwind of colours and noises, he isn't sure, if can still see the rise and fall of the tight chest.  
His own blood rushes through his ears with dizzying velocity, drowning the sounds of a feeble heart beat in buzzing white static.  
With shaking, bloodless hands Sting reaches out for the slender neck, feeling around in increasing urgency, but his searching fingers are only met with merciless, stone-cold silence...

The scream that rips itself free from his lips is inhumane and piercing, a dragon's elegy as it mourns the loss of his dearest treasure, and the realisation, that Rogue was gone – gone- gone - threatens to pull him into a maelstrom of insanity and grief.  
This wasn't a situation anyone should have to deal with on their own, let alone a twelve year old boy, but fate is unforgiving and once again no one can ease the burden from Sting's shoulders, no adult is there to help, only Lector and Frosch and both of them are shell-shocked and petrified by the horrible scene.

He doesn't know how to safe his friend now, has no idea how to perform CPR – Rogue would have known, but Rogue is gone- gone- gone- so he shakes the shoulder his hand still maintains a death-grip on and pleads with him to wake up, to not leave him behind here and now, to not die because of his fucking pathetic helplessness, to...  
Rogue's head lolls sideways limply, causing Sting's inexperienced, clumsy fingers, still pressed to what he believes is the other's pulse point, to shift a few inches further up the craned neck, where they come to a halt right above the artery.  
And suddenly he feels it...  
It's weak and erratic like the fluttering of a tiny bird, and yet, it's a heartbeat never the less.  
A single sob rings throughout the silence, then Sting covers the pale fingers in his grasp in hot, burning tears and a shower of tender, shaky kisses.  
In a sheer endless string avowals of gratitude ghost over the lax hand cradled fondly to a wet cheek and for a moment the blonde isn't sure if his heart is too full or too empty, or everything in between and he wishes, he could just curl up next to Rogue, pull him close and sleep forever.  
And though he is well aware, that for him at least, rest was yet out of the question for hours upon hours to come, the soft thud-thump humming beneath his fingertips is a shy promise, that this night, too, would somehow wane and give way to the first faint slivers of dawn.  
Then Rogue would wake, sleep-addled and soft, and Sting would curl up next to him, pull him close, and then sleep forever, a steady pulse his lullaby.

It's well past midnight, when he feels the first beads of sweat forming on the burning skin beneath his cool fingers, indicating that finally, finally the fever is breaking.  
He dabs the creased brow with a cold cloth for the umpteenth time, gently swabs over the fierce bruise marring the pale temple, while Rogue leans into the touch with a soft little sigh and all but chases after Sting's hands, as soon as he pulls away to dampen the fabric once again.  
The flush on his cheeks seems to be receding ever so slightly, but then again, it could be wishful thinking or the blonde's imagination just as well.  
So he just keeps up the ceaseless motions of wetting the towel and trailing the cool cloth carefully over the pain-clenched features; exerts those actions with such an amount of care and devotion that they almost turn into sacred rites – an offering to the only thing Sting still deems worthy of saying his prayers to after the past two days; an offering to Rogue himself.  
For a little while he looses himself in the dedicative gestures, until the Shadow Dragon Slayer starts writhing restlessly beneath his hands again.  
With doting movements he struggles and shifts, kicking at the blankets, while rolling around and groaning quietly.  
The first moments have Sting up and in a panic at once, the memory of the fever-fit still fresh and vivid in his stuttering heart, but when the feeble hands start prying at the sheets, he gets the problem.

“ 'ts not that cold any more, huh?” He inquires softly and surprises himself with a small chuckle, when Rogue's exasperate huff turns into a sigh of relief upon managing to wiggle a bare foot free from the lump of blankets.  
“C'mere, let me help you. You must be suffocating beneath all those sheets.”  
With a little prod he wakes the Exceeds, snoring restlessly at the foot of Rogue's bed, and it hurts him plenty to see them rise with a start, anxious that another calamity had befallen their sick friend.  
“Shh, it's okay,” he hushes them quickly, “Rogue's getting better. The fever is falling...  
Lector, I need you to get me another clean cloth and lukewarm water, a lot of it! Thanks, buddy!”  
He adds, as his cat darts to the bathroom hastily, before turning back to Frosch, who had already taken up the towel and started dabbing the damp, hot forehead once again.  
“Hey, Frosch! Good thinking! That's exactly what I wanted to ask of you!” Sting praises, touched by the amount of care the little critter gives to Rogue.  
Then he busies himself with easing the heat-accumulating mountain of blanket off of the thrashing form, finding the lower sheets already damp and drenched in sweat.  
The black shirt fares no better and clings tightly to the chiselled body, but Sting makes quick work of shedding the cloths, and then ensures that he has the other boy spread out comfortably on the mattress, his body bare save for briefs.  
As soon as a cool draft wafts over the heated, hypersensitive skin, a soft sound of contentment tumbles from parched lips, but when Sting starts wiping the thin sheen of sweat away, allowing the wet towel to trail in cautious, fond patterns over shoulders, chest, arms and neck, Rogue breathes a sigh of purest bliss.  
So Sting keeps up those steady, repetitive gestures; never once refrains from calming the restless form of the Shadow Dragon Slayer with slow, soothing dabbing and thus efficiently erases the continuous transpiration.  
His ailing best friend quietens down, safe for a shallow whimper every now and then, while the frantic breathing calms and his eyes, that had been rolling around erratically beneath dark, bruised lids still in a state of deep, unperturbed slumber.  
But from time to time Rogue would come to briefly, asking wearily where he was and what had happened, as his gaze flickers around in search of something familiar to cling to.  
The first time it occurs, Sting is nearly too set off to answer, simply brings a reaching, shivering hand to his lips, before his friend trains his look onto a point beyond his shoulder, trying hard to focus on something only he could see.  
“Sting?...” he whispers hesitantly into the room, his voice small and choked beneath layers upon layers of confusion, “You 'kay?”  
And suddenly the blonde can only stutter in utter bewilderment, disbelieving that even now, after having been pulled back from death's door, injured and febrile, his mind tumbled and hazy, Rogue would still concern himself with nothing but Sting's well-being.

The thought causes fresh tears to well up in tired, blood-shot azure eyes and he runs his hand through the thick, black bangs partially obscuring the groggy, hooded gaze, before answering:  
“I should be asking you the same thing! Rogue... please... how...”  
But his ramblings are interrupted by another upset mumbling, this time with urgency having the fleeting breath hitch.  
“Sting... you 'lright? Sting?!”  
So the White Dragon Slayer runs a soft finger down the fine bridge of the other's nose and murmurs:  
“Yeah, I'm alright. I'm right here, I've got you. It's fine, just sleep.”  
But before he allows Rogue to slip back into unconsciousness, he gently lifts his head and brings a glass of water to his lips, instilling him with as much fluid as he manages to swallow.  
The Shadow Dragon Slayer had drifted off again before Sting had even lowered his head onto the pillows, but from then on then cycle repeats roughly every half an hour.  
The dark haired boy would wake without a warning, sleepily inquire, if Sting was okay, before allowing sleep to claim him once again.  
The blonde doesn't particularly mind assuring his friend time and again, that he was, indeed, completely unharmed and right at his side, for the soft words seemed to bring a short-lived moment of comfort for the confused, feverish mind.  
And so he doesn't tire of whispering those low promises and sweet little nothings into the silence of the night, all the while keeping up wiping the sweat from pale skin.

About two hours later the perspiration stops and Sting finds the milk-white skin smooth and cool beneath his touch, while the angry flush had left the marble-still cheeks; a sign, that the fever had thankfully perished altogether.  
A fine shiver runs through the sleeping form, leaving goose-bumps in its wake and indicating, that Rogue's feeble body was obviously restoring its normal, stable temperature, but the sticky, sweat-drenched and rapidly cooling sheets probably felt quite uncomfortable.  
So Sting grabs a fresh change of clothes – the dark, worn-out hoody his friend cherished so much and a pair of soft sweat-pants- and guides the slackened limbs carefully into the garment, before sneaking one arm around the bruised shoulders, the other one beneath scraped knees and, with the motionless form cradled safely against his chest, carries him over to his own, untouched bed.  
Rogue barely even stirs upon being moved, only snuggles closer in an unconscious pursuit of body-heat and whines softly, when he's being eased down onto the dry mattress. But then Sting's scent seems to penetrate his senses and he rolls onto his side and buries his face in the soft pillow as if basking in the familiar smell.  
The White Dragon Slayer runs gentle fingers through his hair, eliciting a content sigh, before the other boy is pulled deeper into the darkness and his movements still.

The blonde takes a hold of his pliant fingers once again and watches the now peaceful face lovingly, every once in a while reaching out, to brush black strands out of purplish, swollen eyes.  
He feels exhaustion weighing down on him almost crushingly, but beneath the thin layer of weariness an eery hollowness seems to spread throughout his being, making him wonder, if another blow would shatter his fragile shell into millions of brittle fragments, that the wind would scatter.  
His mind starts to wander, now that the most immediate threat has passed and a peaceful silence has befallen the room, but no matter where his thoughts turn to, only despair, self-loath or pain raise their ugly heads.  
And the night drags on.

The morning is already dawning, listless and grey, the clouds hanging lowly in the impassive sky as dark as the bags and bruises beneath cerulean eyes, when Sting's head finally starts nodding in the first stages of sleep.  
With his arms sluggish and pricking with exhaustion, head reeling in an acute lack of rest, the promise of an amnesic darkness eventually proved too alluring to resist any longer.  
The room is quiet, save for the soft snoring of the Exceeds, curled around each other on the comforter of his bed, and every once in a while the soft rustling of sheets, when either of them shifts or stirrs.  
Rogue's sleeping more soundly now; breaths deep and even, pulse steady and low, while his features appear relaxed in the cradle of the dreamless slumber of recovery.  
That's how the first ray of the morning sun, breaking through the restless rain-clouds, finds them- hands entwined, both connected by an invisible thread spun in the realms of Narcos.  
And maybe this little beam of light decides to take pity on the blonde boy, maybe it's just a coincidence, but when the warm glow flits over Rogue's sallow face, something seems to resurface from the dark ocean of unconsciousness.

There is a sudden twitching of the motionless fingers in Sting's gentle hold and his head snaps up just in time to witness long, dark lashes starting to flutter, before the weary, dark-circled eyes open ever so slowly.  
“Rogue...”, he breaths, incredulously, not allowing himself to hope, yet, the Shadow Dragon Slayer was actually with him again.  
There seems to be no reaction, fogged eyes justkeep rolling around hazily and without recognition; so Sting already fears, that the insanely high fever together with the violent seizure might have done some irreparable damage to his friends brain...  
But then Rogue blinks a few times and the familiar sparkle of his keen, quick mind ignites in the hooded gaze, and the confusion clouding his eyes gives way to concerned lucidity.

Sting whispers his name again, voice breaking as he feels the weight of a lifetime being lifted off his shoulders, before he lets himself slump forward and buries his face in the others chest.  
“Oh my God, Rogue....” Speech avoids him, but when he feels the gentle fingers tighten around his own hand, he squeezes back, and sits up again, locking eyes with his friend.  
“You feeling better?” He presses out in an attempt to hold back the sobs threatening to wash him away.  
The Shadow Dragon Slayer seems to ponder his answer for a moment, then nods hesitantly, before screwing his eyes shut in pain.  
“I guess so...” He mumbles hoarsely.  
“But everything hurts... My head is killing me... And 'm thirsty as fuck.... But except for that... yeah...”  
Sting only nods, before he reaches for a bottle on the night-stand, a bottle Rogue doesn't recognize, and holds it to the soft lips.  
“Drink this, please.”  
The cold, smooth glass is quivering against the delicate skin.  
“What's this? Where did you get that?” The Shadow Mage inquires curiously, racking his brain about the origin of the potion, but coming up empty handed.  
“I bought it from a healer... No, rather, she just gave it to me... It's for the pain and it'll help you sleep.”  
“Sleep, huh?” The raven-haired boy breaths. “I guess I could do that for the next century without a drug whatsoever, but I'd appreciate some pain killers... But... Did you really need... I mean, was it so bad, you had to contact a healer?”  
Rogue's eyes widen in fear and the way Sting just shakes his head, drained of any emotion and so, so tired, is more than enough of an answer for him.  
“I'm sorry. Oh, Sting... I'm so sorry. You must have had a horrible night and... Please, believe me, that I never intended to hurt you like that.”  
Sting can only nod, as his voice is drowned in miserable, raw hiccups; then he reaches for the pincher of water with shaky hands and tries pouring a glass, but ends up spilling nearly half of it, what with the heavy tremors wrecking his body.  
“Sting?...” Rogue's voice is low with concern and he reaches out with feeble fingers to steady the quaking wrist. “Are you okay?”  
And now the tears start falling without restraint.  
“Yeah... I'm fine... I'm... It's just... I've just been so, so worried about you and...”  
Within seconds Sting is reduced to a sobbing, blubbering mess, as he buries his face in his hands, while he cries, and cries and cries, as if the mere sound of Rogue's voice had split open the cracked, breaking chains holding him together.  
“Hey... shh...” The dark haired boy tries to sooth, before recognizing the futility of his endeavours, so he shifts onto one side of the mattress, pries the tense fingers from the tear-stained face and coaxes the blonde into lying with him.  
“C'mere... I'm so, so sorry for making you worry! Oh, Sting... believe me, I'm so very sorry! I broke my promise...” His voice is growing rough with emotion and all of a sudden the need to have Sting close and next to him gets unbearable, so he tucks at the shivering hands and this time all but pleads:  
“C'mere! Please... I need to know, if you can forgive me...” A single tear spills, and now the White Dragon Slayer lifts his gaze, eyes haunted and sad, relieved and kind.  
For a second he considers refusing for the sake of granting Rogue the luxury of a bed for himself, but when he hears a choked sniffle from him, he slips between the sheets right next to the groggy form of his best friend.  
They look at each other for the longest of moments, and their hands move out almost simultaneously, to cradle the other's cheek and erase the tears clinging to long lashes with a gentle, loving touch.  
Rogue's eyes are starting to grow heavier, as the drugs slowly take over, but the softness in his gaze prevails, as he watches Sting's troubled face.  
The blonde seems to be pondering something; something important, something he wasn't quite sure how to put into words.  
So the Shadow Dragon Slayer inquires quietly: “Sting? What's the matter? Is there anything...”  
But before he can even finish, the blonde stops chewing at his bottom lip insecurely and whispers tentatively:  
“Where do I find the pulse-point?”  
Rogue is taken aback quite a bit, had expected any question but this and is already starting to ramble about the different arteries and pulse-spots in the human body, when Sting interjects again, this time with his voice even smaller:  
“No, I mean... Where do I find yours? Where... Just tell me, exactly where it is, because I... I couldn't ever face this again...”  
He trails off miserably, and suddenly the Shadow Dragon Slayer gets a gruesomely clear idea, of what must have taken place at some point during the night, causing him to whisper the umpteenth apology, uncertain, if it still meant anything to his friend.  
Then he guides the warm fingers in his grip to his neck and places them directly beneath his jaw, right above his aorta, before he locks gaze with the blonde again.  
Something flits through the deep pools of bright sapphire blue, a spark of warm, fond relief, and before Rogue knows it, Sting had brushed his bangs back behind his ears and pressed an achingly sweet, lingering kiss to his brow.  
“What was that for?” Rogue is touched, comforted, surprised, and most of all absolutely overwhelmed by the tender gesture, but Sting's words cause his breath to catch.  
“So that you know, I'm not mad. So you can sleep easily. So that you know I'm nothing but glad, you're okay.”  
He rests his forehead gently against the other's and already allows his eyes to slide shut, when he notices Rogue reaching for the two fingers still pressed to his neck, and moves the hand to his chest, where he spreads the fingers out flat right above his beating heart, whispering: “So that you know, I'm alright and right here. So that you can finally rest. So that you know, I'm eternally grateful, because you saved my life.” His voice softens with every word, until it's barely even there in the end, as the drug pulls him back under, but somehow Sting's last words still register, as well as the feeling of a pair of lips mouthing them against his brow.  
“No, you're wrong. I saved myself.”  
The next moment finds both of them asleep, bodies close and heart-beats coming as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, as always.  
> I hope I didn't crush your hearts too much, but rest asured, the whump is over and the story is going to progress again.  
> Will it be angst?  
> Will it be fluff?  
> Or will it be something more... juicy?
> 
> Just kidding, it's gonna be angst, of course.
> 
> Have a nice time and be safe!
> 
> Dearest greetings,  
> TGA


	11. What lies hidden in your blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is but a dim candle, tinged with sadness and stained with filth, and still he finds the most beautiful moth ghosting around his fading flame, and the fluttering of black wings can sometimes be enough, to kindle a wildfire.  
> And Sting clings to this hope, as he watches a moth turn into a dragon and back, mesmerized and drowning in beauty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After Chapters upon Chapters of shamelessly whumping and hurting the precious Shadow Child, it's finally time to make some real progress here again.  
> Abuse is mentioned, nothing too graphic, but be warned, additionally we have Rogue being BAMF and saving the day and well... Sting trying to heal.  
> Enjoy the umpteenth part of Sting's and Rogue's never ending nightmare, this time also starring: OC's with strange names  
> and vile preferrences. I'm horrible.

Sting wakes with a start, heart pounding in his chest and his breath quick and erratic. His skin is still crawling from the memory of brute hands kneading every part of his body and he can't help but shiver violently at the sensation of something trying to enter him. Something huge and throbbing and burning...  
He'd screamed, rough and primal, but the noise dying down on his lips right now isn't much more than a hoarse whisper.  
And though the details of the dream are already starting to slip through his fingers, he still remembers struggling - against those vile hands, against the feeling of being impaled; recalls fighting, until, at the point where he was sure, he'd be ripped in half, his fingers had finally drawn blood.  
He'd clawed at the wound frantically, his magic a whirlwind of harsh, pure light, until his hands were dripping with a warm, thick liquid and the heady, coppery scent had drowned his senses.  
In a frenzy he had torn through soft flesh, while razor sharp spears of light had rained down on his victim relentlessly, until his magic had worn itself out and he'd collapsed in a state of utter exhaustion.  
The bright shine that had blinded him for the longest time waned and he'd found himself gazing into wine-red eyes, broken and devoid of life, as they stared at him reproachfully.  
There had been blood pouring from a butchered throat, blood that clung to Sting's hands, clothes, hair and lips and even now he can taste it – salty and hot- but before he could even scream, a pair of huge, malevolent hands had pulled him back into the darkness. To thrust into him, all the while Rogue's hauntingly empty eyes had watched impassively...  
At this point Sting's mind had shown the kindness of snapping him out of the nightmare, to have him wake shaken and on the verge of tears, with his hands still tingling from the rapidly cooling blood and the reverberation of a stinging pain in his rear.  
He's gasping for air, trying his hardest to avoid hyperventilation, but the increasing spinning in his head tells him, that he's failing miserably. He doesn't even notice, he'd started wiping his hands with the blankets in a desperate attempt to get rid of the sensation of a sticky, dark liquid staining his fingers.  
He has almost worked himself into a panic attack once again and the sensation of soft puffs of air wafting over his skin nearly pushes him over the edge.  
That is, until his wide, darting gaze finds Rogue next to him, dead to the world, his features peaceful and lax with his lips parted in an inaudible snore, while the sinking sun immerses him in a soft halo of warm light.  
The sight helps to halt somewhat of the quivering, but Sting still feels queasy, remembers a disgusting, unyielding tongue ravishing his mouth, all the while the sensation of Rogue's heart-beat stilling beneath his desperate fingers is yet too freshly engraved into his flesh.  
He doesn't even realise, that his body - curled into a tight little ball - is trembling forcefully, only feels fear suffocating him and repulsion tightening his throat, while his whole being screams for safety and comfort.  
Thus, he lets his muscle-memory take over, allows his arms to sneak around Rogue's sleeping figure and then pulls him close, gently, ever so gently, even though terror has his limbs unsteady and panic fuels his urge for solace.  
But also in a state of sheer, mindless distress does the blonde exert the caution and tenderness either of the boys always maintained, when it came to touching the other; never ever rough, never ever unsettling, so that their trust in one another could remain unwavering.  
And only when feeling Rogue near, his body warm, heavy and whole in his arms, does Sting finally breath freely once again.  
He buries his face in the tuft of raven hair tickling his cheeks, allowing the earthen scent of incense and cedar to wash over his senses until he feels wrapped up in a bubble that is distinctively “Rogue” and it calms his fraying nerves.  
There is movement against his chest, as the Shadow Dragon Slayer stirs and for a second Sting is absolutely convinced, that he'll flinch away in disgust, that he must fear the hands that hurt him, that he must find him filthy and defiled – the thought, that the other couldn't have possibly seen his dream doesn't even occur to him.  
But Rogue only sighs softly, as he sleepily nuzzles into the crook of Sting's neck, obviously content with the current position he finds himself in.  
There is a moment of silence, that is neither uncomfortable nor awkward, but mellow and tranquil, and when the blonde is almost certain, that the other had nodded off again, a low, muffled voice drifts through the quietness of the evening.  
“Hey, are you alright?”  
He senses the question more than he hears it, feels it vibrating through his ribs, as Rogue whispers into his chest, and a shiver ghosts down his spine for reasons he doesn't fully grasp.  
For a second he considers placating his friend with a white-lie, but then he thinks better of it, reminds himself of the unconditional honesty, the bone-deep trust the dark haired boy always regarded him with, and he mustn't repay his kindness with falsehood, no matter how well-meaning it might be.  
So he allows a sigh to fall from his tired lips, before shaking his head- slowly, brokenly.  
“No...” he finally breaths in defeat.  
He feels Rogue humming sadly, unsure what to say, but the way their hearts beat against each other comforts him more than any word could ever have managed, and he lets the fact that his best friend is still here, still safe and sound and close to him sink in.  
Then he fastens his hold on Rogue slightly, mindful not to upset the many bruises covering his beaten form and presses his face into his hair once again, mumbling:  
“No... No, I'm not alright. But I'm getting there.”  
And the Shadow Dragon Slayer wraps his arm around the slender waist, busies his hand with rubbing slow circles over the trembling back, while answering lowly:  
“I promise, I'll be by your side. Just tell me, whatever you need.” Sting nods, words refusing to come, choked by overwhelming affection, and it takes a moment for him to find his voice, somewhere deep down inside his chest, before he mutters hesitantly:  
“Can we just stay like this for a little longer?”  
The ghost of a laughter reverberates through Rogue's form, and he simply presses himself closer, entwines their legs and threads his fingers through Sting's unruly hair, where the setting sun is catching in sparks of ember and red.  
And Sting just focusses on the little puffs of air tickling his collarbone and waits for the warmth of them to reach his chilled core, waits for the restlessness and churning in his guts to subside, as the realisation of safety finally settles in.  
It takes him a while, but in the end, he gets there.

The next few days turn out to be much more pleasant than actually expected, for Minerva leaves for a mission and Jiemma gets held up in Clover, so the boys spend them in the secure walls of their dorm; Rogue resting and recovering and Sting trying hard to find his feet once again.  
Watching over the Shadow Dragon Slayer helps him take his mind off of what had happened in the pit, but after almost two days of being pampered and forbidden to move around more than absolutely necessary, Rogue punches his shoulder softly and with a good-natured laugh tells him to stop behaving like a mother-hen fuzzing over her chick, before making for the bathroom.  
But upon return he makes no move go go outside, simply slumps down on his bed again and reaches for their book with a questioning look at Sting, who doesn't need a second invitation, only huddles close and smiles warmly, when the familiar, rich scent of Rogue's shampoo enters his nose.

They read a lot during the time and it calms Sting's nerves, but the nights are still bad, as they are disrupted by horrible nightmares and he quickly becomes accustomed to panic attacks and sleep paralysis.  
Rogue makes sure, he always pulls through, spends hours on the cold floor, tapping Sting's heartbeat in his palm, as sooner or later the steady pulse would guide the upset blonde back to the presence.  
Mostly it's safe for him to use his fingers, only sometimes the White Dragon Slayer is too far gone and frightened, so he reverts to his Shadows then; but on some rare occasions the blonde wouldn't allow him close altogether, would lash out at him unconsciously and it had always caused him to break down afterwards, when he found a cut or a burn marring the pale skin.  
Rogue never even once holds it against him, just seems glad and relieved, when Sting would finally crumble into his arms, but he knows it hurts him.  
Not the wounds - most of them vanish the moment they get etched into his flesh - but the helplessness, the despair he finds playing out on Sting's features and the knowledge, that he can't do anything but provide a rhythm for his friend to follow back to safety.  
Sometimes talking helps, sometimes it doesn't, but Rogue always keeps on coaxing and praising, reminding Sting to keep breathing, assures him time and again, that he was safe and that the attack would pass eventually, because there was no real threat for him here.  
And at some point Sting would belief him and slump heavily against his shoulder, crying miserably every once in a while, other times shivering like crazy, as his tense muscles slowly unravelled.

The sleep paralysis is even worse.  
Rogue didn't notice the first time it appeared, had slept through the fit without a care in the world, while the blonde had lain only a few meters away, body unresponsive and chest tight, for nearly half an hour - half an hour of purest, mind-eating terror, before the state finally waned, leaving him behind shaking and gasping for air, unable to find rest for hours.  
The second time, Lector had woken him frantically, calling out to him, that something was wrong with Sting, and he'd found him with his eyes wide and pleading, but unable to move a single muscle.  
The moment, Rogue's hands made contact the spell was broken and he regained control over his body, but the memory engraved itself deep into his mind, having him almost dreading sleep on a visceral level.  
Therefore the Shadow Dragon Slayer rearranged the furniture to shove their beds together and maintained some sort of touch throughout the whole night, so that he'd feel the other's pulse picking up speed as soon as an attack was about to occur.  
Luckily, a single word or touch would almost always snap the White Dragon Slayer out of the stasis, but it terrified both of them non the less.  
And yet, it helps Sting tremendously to wake to Rogue's hands warm and gentle on his skin, to not having to agonise himself whether or not to wake his friend, but to find him already easing the terrors with a low voice and patient, fond words.  
So it gets better, but it's taking some time.

Jiemma returns on the seventh day, having both realize, they had forgotten all about Rogue messing up his mission and although the Shadow Dragon Slayer expects the beating with a stubborn composure, Sting is anxious and worried beyond words.  
But the Master comes back to the Guild in unusual high spirits and doesn't mention the slip up altogether.  
For a moment relief runs hot and weakening through their veins, then he reveals the reason for his rare, mild temper.

Apparently, a dragon attack had killed the main members of the Fairy Tail Guild, erasing a whole island from the map in the process, and now with them out of the picture, Jiemma scents his chance to work his way up to the number one Guild in Fiore.  
“You two!” He snarls sharply at the Dragon Slayers, “From now on playtime's over! You will train until you collapse and then I'll have you train some more! You will be my invincible Dragon Slayer Duo and I will see to it personally, that the names Natsu Dragneel and Gajeel Redfox will lose all meaning in the shadows of the Twin Dragons of Sabertooth.  
I will build the strength of this Guild upon those few a deem worthy and I won't tolerate weakness and defeat. You either become stronger or you will regret having ever set foot in here.”

And just like that everything changes.  
The heroes they've once looked up to are gone, have perished in a torrent of dragon fire and their demise will forever mark the last day of whatever remained of their childhood.  
Jiemma works them to the point of complete exhaustion and then pushes them to go further, until both sink to the ground, barely clinging to consciousness, hands weakly reaching for one another, and yet unable to make contact.  
He leaves them there, to pick themselves up after what feels like hours of gathering enough strength to stand, but sometimes, when he isn't satisfied with their progress, he drags either of them to the pit to take his wrath out on their skin.  
Only when they manage to invoke White- and Shadow-Drive without fail, does the frequency of those torturous midnight-sessions lessen.  
But within the three years it takes to get there, he'd beaten Rogue to within an inch of his life at least three dozen times and he had abused Sting just as often, in nearly every horrible way possible, safe for actually raping him.  
By the time he turns fifteen, the pungent, choking stench of Jiemma's seed has burnt itself so deep into his nose, that even when he washes his body with the sharpest cleaning agents and heavily scented soaps, a small pinch doesn't seem to leave his skin any more.  
And one of the few things that still keep him going is the fact, that no matter how badly injured Rogue returns from the pit, no matter how shaken, Sting never detects the scent on him.

The cracks in his heart and mind, however, are still there, and they keep on deepening.  
After the initial assault and the disaster it caused in its wake, something changed in Sting, as the weeks and months went by.  
There is a new harshness, cockiness in his behaviour now, as he spites his enemies and encounters his guild mates with arrogant coldness, while a general air of ruthlessness surrounds him, that borders on cruelty.  
His laugh becomes mirthless, his eyes hard and devoid of mercy, so that most people flinch under his gaze or are taken aback by the edge in his voice.  
The White Dragon Slayer shuns the other members of their Guild, brushes them off brusquely on good days, but when bothered on a bad one, especially by physical contact of any kind whatsoever - a bumping of shoulders, a fleeting touch when walking by – and who ever had the misfortune of triggering the blonde's fury would find himself attacked with the full force of a cornered dragon.  
Soon everyone around knows to avoid Sting Eucliffe, the White Dragon of Sabertooth or tread cautiously in his proximity.  
And yet- as soon as he'd kick the door of his bedroom closed behind him, the icy aloofness would all but melt, giving way to an open, unguarded vulnerability as his gaze softens and his features unclench.  
It is a sight reserved solely for the Exceeds and Rogue, and only they know, that his abrasiveness is nothing but a crude act, a way for Sting to somehow deal with his demons.  
Still, Rogue fears, that someday, the gentleness wouldn't return to those gemstone-like eyes, that one day, Sting wouldn't just snap back to what he used to be like, because the springs holding him together had worn out and withered away.  
He dreads it, but he never brings it up, because there is already so much melancholy hidden in the furrows of the blonde's brow at night, when nightmares plagued his restless form and because he can almost grasp the aura of weariness sometimes threatening to swallow his friend up.  
The White Dragon Slayer still hasn't so much as breathed a single word about what had happened that one night in the pit, or if it kept repeating and Rogue never pries, but he had read up a great deal about psychology, had learned about stress- and anxiety disorders, had studied ways to overcome panic attacks and night-frights.  
And he isn't dense, thus Sting's relentless scrubbing of his skin with strong detergents upon returning from the pit sometimes in the dead of night or the way he would flinch from anyone's touch safe for his, has a certain suspicion rising in his mind...  
He prays he's mistaken, since he has no idea, if or how to confront the blonde in that case, can't simply walk up to him, asking casually, if Jiemma was sexually assaulting him, and the risk, that Sting would shut himself off completely and cut his ties with him is a given one.  
One he isn't willing to take.  
Still, there are days, rare and precious, when Sting would suddenly laugh out of the blue – warm, bubbly and so beautifully innocent – that Rogue's heart would skip a beat, before the constant concern brooding in his chest would mellow for a little while, as he allowed himself to just life in the moment and play pretend that things still were, how they used to be before tragedy struck.

The day it happens is one of those.  
The sun is shining warmly for the first time in weeks and the green on the trees is still fresh and caressed by the gentle light of may, as a few early swallows dart through the skies.  
They had waited for the train leisurely on the lush meadow, with Rogue stretched out on the ground like a lazy cat and Sting chewing on a blade of grass, while he rambled on about a group of beatnicks he'd given a run for their money in town the previous day.  
The Shadow Dragon Slayer had listened with his eyes closed, a rare feeling of serenity filling his chest, eyebrow raised questioningly, when the blonde told him, how the chubby red-head, whose nose he'd broken had wailed for their leader to help him.  
“Seamus... please...” he mocked in a high-pitched falsetto... “Seriously, who's called Seamus, anyway...”  
There Rogue had really lost it, had snorted in honest, but for a completely different reason altogether and when he'd explained himself, Sting had laughed with him, his sapphire eyes sparkling like water reflecting the sunshine itself.  
He'd grabbed the pale hand thoughtlessly and for a short lived moment they'd been at ease.

They're almost sixteen now, their bodies somewhat awkward, albeit being well-toned and muscular to a point one could call it sculptured, with the last traces of boyhood only visible when sleep claims them and they feel the warmth of their other half close, limbs entwined, one's head resting above the other's lazily beating heart.  
The mission they had taken on seemed easy enough – round up a gang of thugs, free the hostages, and hand them over to the authorities – but they'd run into trouble half way through.  
After freeing the alleged hostages they find themselves ambushed and attacked by this very group of people out of the blue and suddenly the odds are turning against them. 

The leader of the group, a podgy, balding guy that always stays in the second row, hidden behind some tough rowdies, had been ogling them from the second he'd laid eyes on the Twin Dragons, but now, that he has them surrounded and driven into a corner, his obviously lecherous gaze seems to be stripping them bare.  
Both Sting and Rogue lash out at the men with everything they've got, but a magic circle suddenly flares in an angry scarlet beneath their feet, draining almost all of their magic power.  
An excruciatingly painful wave of gravity, not unlike Minerva's “Territory” presses them into the ground, until neither can move even an inch.  
“See, it was worth the while to set up some traps ahead...”  
There are footsteps approaching, as a tall, blonde man saunters over to their fallen forms, before gripping Sting around his neck and hoisting him into the air, where his feet search helplessly for a support.  
“Well, would you look at that, Mikhail... Aren't those two precious...”

Mikhail – the leader – waddles over to the guy in question, who still keeps Sting suspended in mid-air by nothing but a large, rough hand clamped around his throat.  
The White Dragon Slayer struggles feebly against his grip, but the man appears ripped with muscles and with his magic nearly completely depleted and his lungs screaming for oxygen, he doesn't accomplish shit.  
“Yeah, aren't they?” A stubby finger runs along Sting's jaw, thumb non-too-kindly pressing against smooth lips in an attempt to enter and Sting bites down onto the meaty digit, can already taste blood, until an enormous hand slaps him with such an immense amount of force, he actually passes out for a moment.

Seeing Sting's eyes roll back into his head and his figure going limp in the brutish grasp has something deep inside of Rogue's chest stir.  
Something on a level deeper than instinct, deeper than self-prevail and the more he sees his friend getting hurt, the more pain he has to endure himself, as two other men pin his body to the ground by simply standing on his shoulders, the louder this raging torrent of purest fury gets.  
“Looks like we found ourselves a jackpot here!” The fat little man continues, as he clutches Sting's chin and bends his head this way and that, even inspects his teeth obviously indifferent to the increasing blue hue entering the softly parted lips of his unconscious victim.  
“And here I was only thinking about their lacrima... Andrush, do you have any idea, what these two cuties could make on the black market? We... We wouldn't have to worry about a thing ever again, if we managed to sell them...”  
A glitter of greed sparkles through the blood-shot, beady eyes and he yanks Sting's head back with a hand fisted harshly into his hair, eliciting a whimper of pain.  
He moves closer and presses his nose in the hollow of the slender, sun-kissed neck and inhales deeply, before trailing his tongue over the soft skin.  
“Hmm...” a disgusting shiver of pleasure runs through his fat form, and his fingers start wandering over the chiselled chest, and lower. “They're both worth a fortune... Look at those eyes... “  
Sting seems to be coming to, for he's starting to struggle weakly again, tries kicking and writhing away from the touch, but before Rogue can do much more than shout in warning, the blonde guy, Andrush, suddenly conjures up a short club out of nowhere and rams the blunt end into the boy's temple.  
He only manages a choked outcry of pain, before his body slackens once again, and blood starts trickling down his face.  
“Yeah... we could live like kings, if only anyone would want a fuck-boy who could rip their throats out at the first given possibility. I say we stick with our plan... We kill the boys and take their lacrima, they alone will sell nicely enough. Not worth the trouble, I say.” He speaks casually, as if debating whether to sell a piece of cattle or not, unaffected by Sting's form slowly suffocating in his death-grip.  
“Well, but here the real fun begins, my dearest Andrush....” Mikhail croons.  
“What if we could kill two birds with one stone here, ey? What if, there was a way to extract lacrima from a wizard's body without actually having to kill them?”  
The blond's face lightens in cruel, inhumane mirth as he raises an eyebrow questioningly.  
“Oh, there is? What about it?”  
“Ah, but that's the cherry on the cake! The lacrima gets extracted through a spell; ancient, lost magic; but it keeps the owner alive. Well. at least more or less... “  
A fit of giggles tumbles from his spit-wet, thick lips, before he continues. “The process leaves the mage mindless and weak, a compliant shell, if you wanna call it that. Just as we love our boys, wouldn't you agree?  
And as luck would have it, we have a wizard capable of performing the spell right here, right now.”  
“Then getter here, as long as this one's still out cold and get it over with!” Andrush's voice seems rough with urgency and a dark longing, as he lets his hand roam over Sting's back.

Rogue starts writhing in panic now, tries struggling against the weight keeping him down, tries summoning his magic, but nothing happens, as the seal carved into the ground keeps him in place with unyielding force. There are tears of frustration and fury rising in his eyes, as he screams his throat hoarse, ordering the men to let go of them, to get the fuck away from Sting, but they only laugh at him.

Mikhail calls for the mage, before he leans in towards the White Dragon Slayer, fingers gripping his chin and he had almost pressed his putrid lips to the smooth, young skin. Almost.

A tempest seems to be raging through Rogue's veins, pitch-black and ancient, like a monster inside of him that devours the pain, the fear and the wrath and turns them into strength.  
The need to protect entwines itself with the urge to tear out the throats of those who were threatening his most beloved friend and the voice of his draconic heritage screams for the blood of those daring to hurt his dearest blessing.  
His shadows curl around him, restless, swirling, ready to lash out.  
Then he feels something awakening in his heart of hearts, a deep understanding of what his Father had left him with, feels those bonds of blood and magic unfurling throughout his whole body, as scales form on his skin, comfortably hard and heavy.  
A spring of power suddenly wells up in his chest, almost overwhelming him with the raw energy waiting for him to claim and he reaches for it without hesitation.

He doesn't even attempt breaking the bonds of the seal this time, just uses the gravity to slip into the ground, effortlessly and graceful, as a never known speed gives him wings.  
He can hear a sound leaving his lips, threatening and determined, as he attacks the blonde still restraining The White Dragon Slayer dead on.

Sting's head is swimming, a dull pain throbbing through his skull and his limbs strangely numb and tingling.  
There are voices around him, voices he doesn't recognise and that don't sound too kind, but his mind is too hazy to make out what's being said.  
He finds breathing difficult and painful, wants to just give up on it altogether, when he feels hands trailing over his skin once again and he gasps forcefully.  
The little oxygen he manages to draw, however, helps lifting the fog clouding his brain so that the world slowly comes into focus again.  
A breath, that smells like cheap booze and something dying somewhere in the huge gaps between yellow teeth enters his nose, making him nauseous, before his eyes fall on the flat, chubby face closing in.  
But before he can even think about panicking or starting to thrash, a growl falls on his ears.  
A low, dangerous and merciless growl, that, as he belatedly realises, is coming from Rogue.  
His gaze darts over to where he expects him to be, a few feet away, pinned helplessly to the ground, but he finds the vicious magic circle vacant.  
Within the blink of an eye something hits his tormentor with such a tremendous force, that a gush of blood splatters onto the ground, before his hand loosens its grip.  
As the brute of a man collapses, Sting awaits hitting the ground hard, but a strong arm breaks his fall and lowers him carefully, while a hand still cradles his head to keep it elevated.  
“Rogue...?” he slurs, because the world won't stop spinning, but he's hushed quietly, while being bedded onto something soft, that smells comfortingly like his friend.  
“Stay down, take deep breaths. I've got this.” The familiar voice seems richer, deeper somehow and only now does Sting notice.  
Rogue is standing over his curled up form, daring anyone to come closer, and his posture is proud, strong and breathtakingly beautiful.  
His raven hair stands on end like a halo of purest midnight-black and his skin is adorned with scales that shimmer like onyx, while the shadows swirling around him give him an aura of surreality.  
The ruby eyes are ablaze and flicker provocatively as he lashes out at the first group of scoundrels with self-confident, swift motions, that Sting can't help but be in awe of.  
The dragon's roar sweeps over the battle ground, leaving only a few enemies standing; but one of them is a wizard herself, probably the one tasked with performing the ritual.  
She seems to specialise in a variety of runes and circles, which she draws into the air with a long, sharp-nailed finger and once one of the runes hits Rogue, he hisses in pain.

The fight is a vicious one, as their enemy is capable of countering most of Rogue's attacks and he's getting frustrated, for he feels his energy dwindle. He's still standing right over Sting, refuses to abandon his protective stance adamantly and she knows, the blonde is his weak spot.  
So a desperate plan forms in his head.  
“Sting, hey, can you hear me?” He mouths, relieved to catch the tiny “Yeah...” as an answer, before continuing: “When I give you the sign, I want you to run for it, as far as you can, you got that?”  
The White Dragon Slayer's eyes widen, and he shakes his head hard.  
“Not happening! I won't leave you behind in here, so forget about it! I won't let you sacrifice yourself for my sake a second time!”  
“I wasn't asking you, I was giving you an order! Get the fuck out of here, now!”  
For the very first time Rogue's voice is hard and leaves no room for opposition when directed at him, but Sting won't budge, so he actually yells at him.  
“Sting! Move your ass, right now or I'll make you! Get moving...”  
But as they quarrel, the wizard uses the second of distraction and pounces, a large circle forming over their heads with undoubtedly malevolent intent.  
“Shit...” Rogue swears, before bellowing  
“Shadow Dragon's Cursed Cataclysm” and a void of darkness erupts around them, a maelstrom rushing and crushing everything in its way, as it roars over the clearing.  
For a second Sting is sure, Rogue has lost controll, that his magic would sweep them up in the chaotic current as well, but then he finds his friend standing tall and poised in the eye of the storm, as he directs the darkness threatening to devour them, before he notices, that he himself is wrapped up tightly in a warm cocoon of shadows himself.  
However, these aren't the wild, violent ones Rogue had conjured now, those were the familiar tendrils that were almost a part of his body, embracing him with a tenderness reserved for Sting alone, and suddenly he feels completely safe.  
The mayhem dies down gradually, leaving behind nothing but a path of destruction and motionless bodies, scattered between debris, wood-chunks and other parts of the landscape thrown around by the whirlwind of darkness.  
The mage lies about a hundred feet away, face down in the dirt, limbs spread out in odd angles and her form shows no signs of life.

Rogue's panting heavily now, his clothes are torn and in some places blood seeps through the fabric, but only when he's made sure, that every last little threat is gone, does he allow his knees to give out.  
Sting quickly scrambles over, to catch his slumping form in his arms and lowers both of them to the ground. The dark haired head comes to rest wearily on his shoulder, and he tightens his hold around the slim waist, where he feels the muscles quivering with exhaustion beneath his touch.  
Slowly the solid scales dissolve, giving way to smooth alabaster skin again and the black strands sink back down, now appearing as limp and deflated as Rogue himself.  
“You moron...” he whispers hoarsely into the blonde's neck. “Why didn't you run, when I told you to?”  
It takes a great amount of willpower for Sting not to snap at him, but to keep up trailing the gentle motions all over the hunched back.  
“You're the moron here, asshole. You once promised me, you wouldn't ever throw your life away in some stupid act of self-sacrifice for me.... Were you going to break your word again?”  
His voice cracks dangerously, but then the Shadow Dragon Slayer answers groggily:  
“Wasn't planning on it... Just wasn't sure, if I could control the spell. And since they're my shadows I wasn't in danger at any point... But since you decided to be a stubborn hard-ass, I had to keep you safe at the same time, and now look where that got us...”  
His words seem reproachful, but his tone is light and gentle, as he hugs Sting back, leaning heavily against him, because he knows the blonde could take it and because he knows, he wants him to.  
“Hard-ass... my ass. As if you'd acted any different...”  
And Rogue doesn't deny it, rather rubs his face against Sting's shoulder in a wordless gesture of comfort, agreement, fondness and trust.  
Soft fingers start running through his hair, so he leans into the touch and closes his eyes, while the sunlight dances over his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that Chapter takes the cake when it comes to lenght...
> 
> But I still hope you enjoyed it and anyone who read it till the end may have a cookie and my sincerest thanks.  
> A comment would be lovely and make my day, as always :-)
> 
> Be thanked for reading, be safe and have a great day!
> 
> Greetings, TGA


	12. Breath life into me, as I drown in your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two souls- irresistibly drawn to the place they belong, in the large jig-saw puzzle of life, irrevocably and forever rushing towards one another...  
> The moment, they finally collide and mingle will be more gentle than the falling of a leaf in autumn and violent enough, to shake the heavens.  
> And once the wheel has started to turn, it cannot be stopped, neither by life, nor by death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,
> 
> looks like I have a new hang to writing Chapters of ridiculous length now... And I had debated long and hard, where to make a cut, so I hope, it doesn't sound forced somehow.
> 
> And there's once again an OC, with a questionable name, but a solid purpose, and I just hope, you're going to roll with it.  
> Otherwise, just let me know, if I suck as bad at creating own characters as I think and I swear to god, she'll be the last one :-)
> 
> This Chapter is a little bit more slow and pensive, almost fluffy, but on the other hand also really sad.  
> Just what to expect, from Sting and Rogue's never ending nightmare, Pt. 12 (Wow, we really came a long way... And I thank every one who had been with me so far. You're great! All of you!)

“Fuck...” Sting spits out the curse together with a mouth-full of blood, that leaves an ugly stain on the dirt of the training area.  
A stain that's reminiscent of a morbid Rorschach-Test as it gets sucked up by the ground greedily, having the blonde wonder numbly, if the dull, hard soil making up the sparring ring shouldn't be saturated with his blood by now.  
“Again!” A harsh voice booms. “What are you standing there, gaping? You fucking disgrace, get a move on! Are you even trying?”  
The next attack takes Sting by surprise and sends him flying into the wall with bone-crashing force, and this time the blood welling up behind his lips doesn't just stem from biting his tongue, but carries the sour taste of bile and lets him know, that something has ripped inside of him again.  
It isn't the first time, nor the second and by now the White Dragon Slayer knows, that this respective taste means another night for him to spend in a hard, uncomfortable bed at the infirmary.  
The past few weeks had been nothing but pure torture for him and their Master shows no sign of lessening the fierce pressure he puts on the blonde what so ever.

 

After defeating Mikhail and his gang, the Twin Dragons headed back for the Guild weary and beaten, yet filled with a strange sense of fulfilment and pride. They'd patched up the shallow wound on Sting's temple, and even though Rogue was still fretting over the growing bruise starting to bloom there, he was relieved beyond words, that he'd managed to invoke Dragon Force before some real damage had been done.  
But the lesson, that no power comes without a price, is one he had to learn as soon as the train jerked into motion.  
All of a sudden his face turned ashen, while cold sweat broke out on his skin and he groaned miserably.  
Still remembering a certain, horrible night years ago, a night full of feverish moans and mindless mumbling, Sting was anxious within the second.  
“Rogue... What's wrong? Are you hurt somehow?” But the Shadow Dragon Slayer just grunted, before whining:  
“I think I'm gonna be sick... This damn swaying and rocking.... Everything's spinning... Can we please get off the train? I...”  
The next words were drowned in rash gagging, before Rogue doubled over and started retching violently into the bag hastily offered by a conductor.  
The blonde looked at him incredulously, asking absolutely dumbfounded:  
“Since when do you suffer from motion sickness?”  
His only answer was a pathetic, hoarse whimper, as the other boy slumped back into the seat, eyes clenched shut and skin a greenish grey.  
“Are you for real? One moment, you're like the most bad-ass thing I've ever seen so far and then you're puking your guts out 'cause of a little juddering? What's gotten into you?”  
A not so tiny amount of amusement had been showing in his voice, as he mocked:  
“So, is your new special attack going to be the Shadow Dragon's Hurl, or what?”  
But when he noticed Rogue's pathetic groaning and the way his body seemed to be shaking, he took pity on him and his eyes softened.  
“C'mere, lay down.”  
Sting reached for the quaking shoulders compassionately and with a gentle pull coaxed Rogue's boneless form into curling up on the seat.  
The Shadow Dragon Slayer complied easily, allowing Sting to guide his head into his lap and his lids fluttered closed when he felt long fingers carding through his hair in a slow, steady way.  
It didn't erase the nausea and the convulsions wrecking his stomach, but it made them bearable and after half an hour the constant gentle stroking and Sting's scent, drowning his senses, managed to lull him into a fitful slumber.

A little prod to his shoulder woke him with a start from strange dreams filled with swirling shadows and blood on blond locks, and only when a quiet voice fell on his ears did the lingering image fade.  
“Hey, shh... It's alright... Our stop's up next. Feeling any better?”  
A new wave of nausea hit his upset stomach full force and with a choke he slumped back down and curled up against Sting again, while the blonde brushed stray ebony strands out of his eyes.  
For a moment the fleeting fingers trailed an old scar on his forehead with a feather light touch, mumbling: “That's from our first mission, isn't it? Damn, I was sure that troll had split your head...”  
Rogue could only nod, unsure how to respond, but Sting didn't seem to expect a reply anyway, just kept looking at his face, as if the answer to all of his questions was hidden within his features, while deft fingers ghosted over the pale skin.  
The Shadow Dragon Slayer wasn't startled by the intimate caress, didn't deem it strange - tenderness and sweet little touches had always been a part of their friendship, something that kept their hearts from petrification in the harsh world of Sabertooth - but there seemed to be something sad and desperate in the way Sting's hands wandered over every inch of his face, as if trying to commit it to memory, as if he dreaded either of them vanishing into thin air at any given moment.  
“Sting...” Even though queasiness tightened his throat and speaking sent the world reeling once again, Rogue still tried to question the sudden melancholy shimmering in the blue eyes; wanted to initiate a conversation he wasn't too sure, how to begin and where to follow, but all of a sudden the train stopped with a jolt and the spell was broken.  
Sting blinked himself back into the present and the openness in his gaze vanished behind a wall of hardness and arrogance.  
They were almost back at the Guild, no longer just the two of them without fetters and shackles forcing them to play pretend, their relationship only reached as far as team-work would require.

Rogue never really understood, why Sting insisted so vehemently on appearing distant and impassive with each other as soon as anyone even remotely related to Sabertooth was around, but since even the smallest token of public affection would upset the blonde immensely, he complies.  
And though he knows it's but an act, it stings sometimes in the dead of night and then he'd lie awake, thoughts circling endlessly in his head, as he watched over Sting's sleep; unsure, if he was allowed to reach out and stroke the dear features, which even in slumber wouldn't shed the air of weariness and sadness clinging to them.  
Sometimes he would throw caution to the wind and actually steal a touch, and sometimes a small smile would bloom on Sting's lips as he nuzzled into the warm fingers dancing over his skin.  
Other times, however, the soft gesture would cause the blonde to flinch and shy away from him, and a pang of guilt and pain would run through his heart, causing him to retreat to the far end of the mattress.  
He had tried a few times to coax Sting into explaining his behaviour, but had been brushed off with either a distant, defeated shaking of head or a sudden change of topic altogether, and finally it became clear, that he wouldn't receive an answer, just had to trust his friend and follow his lead.

Thus, as he'd seen the shutters of impassive aloofness slide down behind azure eyes, he'd equally hardened his expression and drawn away from the soft touch; his skin missing and mourning the warmth, as soon as the nimble fingers had fallen away.  
Not a moment too early as it seemed, for the next second the humongous figure of their Master appeared outside of the window, looking them over with a scrutinizing, cold gaze, before snarling:  
“What are you waiting for, get off the damn train! I told you, not to dally, after your mission!”  
Of course Master Jiemma had to show up at the station, as soon as he'd received word of their successfully completed mission from the client, to make sure the boys wouldn't even so much as think about idling on their way home to indulge themselves with – God forbid it – one or two hours of free time spent leisurely in town.

Sting dashed outside, his face an enigma carved in stone, while Rogue dragged behind, knees still faint and wobbly enough that his legs buckled beneath his unstable form as soon as he'd set foot onto the steep set of stairs marking the trains exit, and he'd almost crashed face first into the hard concrete.  
A hand clutched his arm within the last second - the grip rough and a far cry from gentle – and yanked him back to his feet, before the blonde turned away without so much as a second glance.  
However, as Sting brushed past him, a voiceless whisper, only audible for the keen ears of a Dragon Slayer, had been asking for forgiveness.  
“Sorry for that. You okay?”  
And Rogue didn't hesitate to guide a small, hidden tendril of shadows forward, to give sun-kissed, delicate fingers a firm squeeze.  
Jiemma looked them over strangely and for a second, they were both certain he'd witnessed the concealed exchange, but then his eyes got caught on Rogue.  
“What's with you? You look like shit, brat. Did the mission proof too much for you to handle?”  
For a moment the Shadow Dragon Slayer pondered a good excuse for his apparent pallor and the faintness of his limbs, but couldn't come up with something less pathetic and thus decided just to stick with the truth.  
“Got sick on the train on the way back, somehow. Nothing serious.”  
He secretly kept his fingers crossed, that something this trivial wouldn't be considered as a display of weakness, but with Jiemma's twisted creeds and expectations, one could never really tell.  
So Rogue wasn't all that surprised to find himself hoisted up by the collar of his shirt, an oversized hand fisted unyieldingly into the fabric; was already expecting the brunt of the impact, but the Master just mustered him closely, the eerily empty eyes searching for something neither of the Dragon Slayers could guess.  
After a few moments of staring intently at the Shadow Mage, he inquires: “You! You managed to activate it, didn't you? You invoked Dragon Force!”  
The usually thundering voice was all of a sudden reduced to a low, husky whisper, a dangerous undercurrent of greed and malice threaded into his words.  
But as he continued, the original imperious, commanding tone returned.  
“Was about time, at least one of you managed to finally show some progress. You will learn to activate it at will until next month, no complaints, no failure!”  
That being said, he hauled Rogue onto the ground with enough force, to send him to his knees once again, before he turned to Sting.  
“And you... It sure comes as no surprise to see that Cheney had been the one, who'd actually gone and done it.  
As expected of you damn pathetic loser, you probably didn't do shit, rather had your sorry ass gotten into trouble like the damsel in distress, that you are.  
You better hurry and prove, that you're a Dragon Slayer after all. Else... Well...”

After that Jiemma made them train each day until well into the night, throwing attack after attack at them, to clubber the boys into Dragon Force; had actually hired a nurse, capable of powerful healing magic, so that he could continue where he left off at midnight early the next morning, after she had patched them up, causing the Dragon Slayers to spend many a night at the newly installed infirmary.  
The first time they had ended up there Rogue's arm had been broken horribly, while Sting just couldn't stop coughing up blood, and their general state caused the nurse to swear loudly.  
Jiemma had all but thrown them into separate rooms, instructing her to have them healed up until sunset, before leaving Sting behind with nothing but words of sheer spite.

The nurse, who'd coaxed the blonde into downing a couple of bitter, coppery potions, had introduced herself as Sister Miriam – a short, somewhat tubby woman, with sympathetic, understanding forest green eyes and chestnut brown hair, that cascaded down her back in shimmering waves of silk.  
She had pressed her hands to his chest and stomach then, a warm shimmer of green light already evaporating from her palms, but even though she looked as innocuous as a plump kitten, he had still flinched away from the sudden touch violently.  
The hands withdrew at once, and deep, questioning emerald eyes found frightened cerulean ones.  
The White Dragon Slayer looked her over in askance, uncertain whether she posed a threat, whether he could allow her to touch him; but when she'd held out her hands, the gesture as slow and placative as possible, he'd found himself complying ever so cautiously.  
A warm smile had been his reward for the token of trust, and this time her hands had stopped a hair's width before actually making skin-contact, while her fingertips guided wave upon wave of a soothing energy right into his flesh.  
The pain stopped almost immediately and the strange sensation of something knitting back together deep inside of his guts made him gasp and shiver in discomfort.

The unsettling feeling, however, waned eventually, as Miriam withdrew, giving him a soft, sad smile.  
“You're fine for now, but you shut stick with soup and broth for the next few days, okay? I swear, how reckless of him, to send two minors on a mission that would cause that amount of damage.”  
Sting almost choked on the water she'd offered, but made no move to correct her.  
She'd probably figure it out soon enough and he didn't want her to look at him with pity in her gaze.  
“Rest now, I'll check on you later. I have to look after the other one, his arm's a bloody mess.”

Sting had already opened his mouth to ask if he could see Rogue, if it was possible for them to share a room, but clamped it shut quickly, for of course they had to keep up their stupid act, even now when he ached for the other's company, even now when he knew, his friend was in pain and could use some comfort.  
But this was still Sabertooth and he wasn't sure, if the nurse wasn't expected to report to the Master after all – she seemed like a sweet, caring person, but then again, he and Rogue seemed as if they didn't give a rat's ass about each other, as well.  
“Is there something that you need, my boy?”  
Sting shook his head wordlessly, before slumping down onto the mattress, arms crossed behind his head, as he starred at the ceiling without uttering another word.  
In his ears reverberated the sickening, crunching sound, as Rogue's arm broke, followed by a choked yelp of pain and a heavy thud, as his body hit the ground.  
With a groan of frustration he buried his head beneath the pillow, trying his hardest to drown the memories running around in circles; wanted to silence the taunting voice that kept on calling him useless and weak.  
A fruitless endeavour, for as soon as his thoughts returned to Rogue, his face pale and contorted in pain, eyes screwed shut, as he'd gasped for air, the urge to hit his head against the wall – relentlessly, until blood splattered – would make his hands twitch.  
Once again Rogue had paid the price for his insufficiencies, because the attack the Shadow Dragon Slayer had tried to block, had actually been aimed at himself, kneeling on the ground, clutching his midriff, while he wheezed and gagged on his own blood.  
Jiemma hadn't spared him even for a second, hadn't allowed him the slightest chance to catch his fleeting breath, and the spell would have caught him dead on with full force.  
Rogue had tried to manoeuvrer himself between the two of them, would have been able to counter the attack easily, but Jiemma had grabbed his forearm when he had rushed past, and yanked him back with such an insane amount of force, that the bone snapped instantly.

The spell, however, still hit its target unabatedly.  
Sting had been flung back several feet, rolling over the ground, before the wall had stopped him abruptly, and then the world had gone dark.  
His form had hung motionless and flaccid within the grip of a calloused hand, that had fisted into the back of his shirt, hoisting him up with a jerk, to lug him away like a rag-doll, while his feet had dragged over the floor uselessly and limp.  
He'd come to - feeling sluggish and fogged- halfway to the infirmary, to find Jiemma hauling both of them along; manhandling Rogue's barely conscious form in an equally careless, harsh manner.  
Their eyes had met for a moment, both dazed and clouded with pain, before the Shadow Dragon Slayer had passed out, his left arm hanging at an excruciatingly wrong angle.

Sting was still staring at the ceiling, his heart heavy with concern and guilt, when he heard the door opening quietly.  
“Are you feeling better, my boy?” A low voice asked, and Sting only gave a tiny nod, as he pointedly avoided looking at the nurse.  
A soft sigh was his sole answer, before she piped up once again, this time her tone warm and friendly.  
“If you're feeling up to it, you can go see your friend now.”  
Without even bothering to draw his gaze from the brittle layers of paint above, he retorted offishly:  
“Wouldn't call him that, we're just supposed to train together, because our magic complements each other.”  
All of a sudden she laughed, soft and clear like the ringing of silver bells.  
“Yeah, sure, whatever you say... But, tell me, is it true, that the senses of a Dragon Slayer are uncommonly sensitive and keen?”  
The question didn't make any sense to Sting whatsoever, so he'd answered only with a brusque:  
“Yeah, so what about it?”  
“Oh, nothing...” Miriam chimed, “but you see, from the moment he woke onward, your friend kept sniffing the air and straining his ears subtly, just the way you do. So either my infirmary is an El Dorado of intriguing stimuli, or the two of you have been secretly checking on one another for the past two hours.”  
Then the humour had bled from her voice as she became more sombre.  
“Listen, my boy, I know, I can't expect you to trust me right now, but you're my patient and I want you to be at ease. So you don't have to play pretend in any way what so ever; if you want to be with your friend, just go ahead and do so. It's obvious the two of you care about each other. A lot.”

A shadow of fear must have flittered over Sting's face at this very moment, for she added hastily:  
“Don't worry! It requires a heart to notice; so I guess your Master will never know.  
But I've heard a bit about the way Jiemma runs this Guild, about his ideas of friendship and love, so I guess you're only trying to keep your friend safe. You're a good boy...”  
Her little speech had already started to grate on Sting's nerves; the warm, friendly words as foreign to him as the surface of the moon, and he'd huffed irritatedly, while rolling his eyes.

The gesture didn't go unnoticed, cueing Miriam to continue, her voice now sad and low:  
“Sting... as I said, I can't expect you to believe or trust me, but I want you to know, that I'm nothing like your Master. I took this position, because a dear friend of mine once told me about a boy banging at her door in the middle of the night, desperately begging her to save the life of his best friend. He, too, bore the Sabertooth-Emblem and he seemed so lost and upset, it almost broke her heart. I'm here, because I think, it's high time, someone showed this Guild, showed the two of you some kindness.”

“Kindness, huh?” Sting tasted the unfamiliar word on his tongue, tried to fit it into his life this way or another, but no matter how he looked at it, he couldn't wrap his head around the concept any longer, so he laughed joylessly:  
“And what would I want with that? I have no need for kindness. I need strength, power and courage.”  
The woman almost flinched under the hardness in his voice that cut the air like a knife, before her features softened and she asked quietly:  
“But what would you need those for, if not to keep your loved ones safe?”  
And here Sting suddenly found no answer to give at all, so she continued, her speech still sweet and patient:  
“Do as you please, I just want the two of you to recover. Jiemma has no entry to the infirmary without my explicit say-so, therefore you're safe as long as you're in my care. And if you want to see Rogue, his room is the second one to the left, across the floor.”  
And without thinking Sting muttered: "I know.” before he could even stop himself.  
Miriam left the room with a small smile playing at her lips.

Sting waited with bated breath for her steps to fade in the distance, then he dashed across the hallway, as quick and silent as a shadow himself, and sneaked into the room every fibre of his being had been screaming at him to run to.  
The bed he found Rogue in was ridiculously big and his slender form almost seemed lost in a sea of pristine white linen, as he rested against a small mountain of pillows, with his left arm propped up and securely bandaged beside him.  
A rash twinge of guilt hit the blonde's heart at the sight of the injured limb, but he forced himself to put up a brave face, before he dropped down wearily onto the mattress. The Shadow Dragon Slayer gave him a warm, lopsided smile – a smile that Sting returned in an equally fond, caring way – while his eyes shone with a sparkle of unabashed affection.  
His lids appeared heavy and hooded, gaze tranquil and gentle, and when he blinked, the motion came slow and drowsy, almost as if he was about to fall asleep any moment. All in all, he looked incredibly soft and mellow and Sting had to refrain from curling up right next to him on the comforter, instead inquired cautiously:  
“Hey, you okay? Does it still hurt?”  
“Nope, don't feel a thing.” Rogue shook his head, before he continued:  
“But I gotta say, those pain-killers really are something else... It feels as if my head was stuffed with cotton... It's all warm and fuzzy, like floating, just without clouds...” He hesitated for a brief moment, trying to clear the cobwebs in his brain, before asking: “Do I even make sense to you?” 

He looked at Sting in an almost adorable mixture of concern and amusement, and the blonde reached out thoughtlessly to trail his finger down the bridge of his nose, before answering.  
“As little as usual. But why do you always end up getting the good stuff!? No fair! The shit I had to swallow tasted like cow-piss and made my guts burn like crazy.”  
He pretended to pout, then couldn't help but snort, when Rogue dead-panned:  
“Well, sucks to be you.”  
The blonde punched his chest lightly, before groaning in mock-frustration: “I don't know, why I even bother with you damn prick any longer...”  
His bright laughter, however, turned into a hiss of agony, when a sudden onslaught of afterpain stabbed his stomach, causing him to double over with an audible gasp, while his hands fisted into the sheets so hard, his knuckles turned white.  
Rogue reached out immediately, to rub small, light circles over Sting's tight back, trying to somehow guide him down; but lacking an arm to succeed.

“Come on, lay down! It'll be better any minute...” The Shadow Dragon Slayer coaxed gently, as his fingers ran through the shimmering golden strands, but his friend only shook his head vehemently, panting:  
“No, that's your bed and you're injured! I... I might end up hurting your arm by accident and...”  
“Sting!” with a surprising sternness given his woozy, somewhat detached state, Rogue tugged at the clenched hands, before prying: “This bed is humongous, I'm not in pain whatsoever and you had been hurt much worse! So do me a favour, stop stalling and lay the fuck down. Actually, I could do with some warmth as well, 'cause I'm freezing.”  
And indeed, the hand stroking Sting's hair was cold as ice.  
“Aftermath of the shock.” Rogue shrugged, reminding the blonde of the ghostly paleness of his face before he'd blacked out.  
So when he put it like that, Sting didn't really have a chance to object, just slumped down and curled into a tight little ball, as he rode out the cramps and seizures; while long, gentle fingers ceaselessly offered comfort.

“I shouldn't even be here in the first place...” He mumbled when the fit died down after ten minutes, and the careful hand just kept on caressing his back, the motions slow, sleepy but also graceful as if suspended in quicksilver.  
“What if the nurse finds out?”  
“Sister Miriam? Don't be ridiculous, she seems like a nice person, I highly doubt, she'd tell on us. Besides, why do you think, I'd been given this oversized bitch of a bed in the first place? Come on now, it's fine, I promise.”  
So Sting scooted closer with almost glacial speed, his gaze trained on Rogue's face to watch out for even the tiniest trace of discomfort, but finding non.  
He fell silent then, only extended a hand to pet the thick, jet-black tresses, while breathing a sad little sigh.

“You shouldn't have done this.” He finally whispered.  
And since he'd been unable to meet the other's questioning look, Rogue had hooked a finger beneath his chin and tilted his head back up, gazing intently into cornflower-blue eyes brimming with too many feelings to name, too much grief to suit such a short life.  
It pained him, as usual, so he tried to ease at least somewhat of the burden weighing his best friend down. As usual.  
“What I did was my decision and had nothing to do with you. You were down on the ground, completely exposed and defenceless, and choking on your own blood, for fuck's sake. I would have done this for any one, probably even for a stranger in the streets, just 'cause it's what any decent human being should do.”  
Somehow his words ended up hurting Sting even more, although he didn't really understand why.

But then Rogue continued with a raw emotion, his voice rarely displayed:  
“I would have done this for anyone and now you're telling me it was wrong to do it for YOU? When will I get it through this thick skull of yours, that I can't stand you getting hurt? Not when I can do something about it, not ever.  
Why do you think, it's okay for you to get injured time and again, but god forbid, it happens to me? Sting... maybe I have to put it that simple, so that even a dimwit like you can finally understand...  
Seeing you getting hurt and being unable to prevent it, hurts me ten times more, than any fracture or bruise ever could. So I'd gladly take on any beating, any pain, if only it would spare you. There, I said it.”  
He looked at the blonde, his deep, red eyes almost furious, lips pouting, but the aura of drug-induced softness somewhat diminished the seriousness he obviously planned to display and Sting had to keep himself from chuckling for a moment.  
Then he sobered up quickly, humour fading from his gaze.  
“Sorry. It's just... I'm sick an tired of you taking the fall for my sake for the umpteenth time. If I wasn't such a damn pathetic loser- If I was stronger, you wouldn't have to protect me all the time...”  
Rogue allowed his hand, that had been tickling the nape of Sting's neck with abandon, to slide to his jaw, cradling his face as securely as he could manage with only one arm at his disposal, and started running the pad of his thumb softly over the prominent cheekbone.  
“Sting, listen to me. And only this once... Only this once try to actually believe me...  
You. Are. Not. Weak! You. Are. Not. Pathetic!  
You've been enduring all of this for years... Jiemma had ground you into the dust a thousand times, and yet you always got back up right away. You never quit, you never allowed him to break you.” He hesitated for a second, voice dropping to a strained whisper.  
“And you somehow live with... whatever he does to you in the pit ...”  
For a moment, he pointedly averted his gaze, pretended not to notice the way Sting's eyes widened in shock for a second before he had reigned himself in.  
“How could you ever think of yourself as a loser? Maybe Jiemma keeps calling you that, but let me tell you, you're a far cry from it. Sting – I really admire your persistence and the fact that somehow you're still able to laugh is... is... Am I rambling?”  
Rogue trailed off, searching for a reaction in Sting's eyes, before he blinked in confusion at the chaos of emotions threatening to drown the White Dragon Slayer.  
The blonde pondered his words for a moment, then shook his head imperceptibly, before mumbling:  
“Okay... So, you're telling me, I wasn't weak... Why is it then, that I still can't activate Dragon Force? How do you do it in the first place?”  
“I guess you're just lacking a proper incentive.” The Shadow Dragon Slayer answered, his voice strangely toneless and pensive.  
“A proper incentive?” Sting breathed, incredulous and unbelieving.  
“Like what? Tell me, what's yours.”  
And Rogue went perfectly still, as he looked him dead in the eyes, his gaze open, honest and steady.  
“I think about the thing I hate most in this world.”

For a moment Sting felt, as if the other had just pushed him off a cliff. Did Rogue just...  
But the smooth, calm voice reached him once again, the warm eyes still staring intently into his darting ones, while a tinge of sadness wormed its way into the unguarded features.  
“I think about the thing I hate most in this world, and then I imagine how it destroys what I love more than anything.”  
The soft fingers were back, trailing over Sting's temple and cheek with a tenderness he knew he did not deserve, and yet he leaned into the touch.  
Rogue was still staring directly into his very core, his words a ceaseless reverberation in ringing ears, and the blonde tried hard to determine, if he'd misunderstood his friend, if those had been just the drugs talking, or if he'd meant what he had said.  
But when he finally dared to meet those beautiful, earnest eyes again, he found Rogue's heart lying bare and open in his gaze, and the amount of fondness, longing, commitment and trust swirling there made him speechless.  
It seemed as if the Shadow Dragon Slayer had only been waiting for Sting to finally notice, for as soon as he found azure eyes widen in understanding, the softest smile grazed his lips, and his drooping lids fluttered closed.  
A small sigh ghosted over the blonde's skin, before a whisper, so low and faint had tickled his ears, he'd very nearly missed it altogether: “Promise you'll stay with me?”  
And for a moment, he wasn't sure, if Rogue referred only to the very night in question or hinted at something far greater than that, but no matter which way, Sting knew his answer.  
With the greatest amount of caution he lifted the raven haired head, to sneak one of his arms beneath it, bedding his friend down onto his shoulder, while the other one wrapped around the slender waist, before he scooted closer, until he had Rogue cradled safely against his chest, face pressed into the crook of his neck.  
The Shadow Dragon Slayer stirred feebly once again, but only to somewhat adjust his position, and when his lips brushed the sensitive skin on Sting's throat shiveringly, something told the blonde, that it hadn't been an accident.  
So he pressed a trembling kiss to the pale forehead, praying that this could mean the beginning of something new, something beautiful.  
Something that might actually save them both.

And when he entered the sparring ring some days later, to take on Jiemma for the thousandth time, the air tingled heavily, like the static-buzzing calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's it for now... Shout out to Rogue finally finding the right words and being adorably out of it to some degree.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the Chapter and, as always, I want to thank you for reading, commenting, kudoing and all of your support.  
> Be safe you guys.
> 
> Dearest greetings,
> 
> TGA


	13. May moonlight bless me, as my shackles corrode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One tear to silence an ocean, one word to set loose a thunder storm, and one drop of blood to awaken a dragon.
> 
> So rusty, worn out fetters will ring like freedom bells, once they hit the floor, abandoned and crumbling away to dust, while a Phoenix rises from their ashes, in a baptism of purest light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, would you look at this... It's 2:30 am, I have to go to work in four hours, my cats stare at me as if I was completely insane (what I probably am) for being still awake and disturbing their nap with ceaseless typing, but once I had started, I had to finish the Chapter...  
> It just felt too good, to finally allow Sting to break free...  
> This thing will be probably loaded with typos and errors, but if I don't post this now, I'll never make it to bed...  
> We don't beta, We die like (wo)men.
> 
> So please enjoy the unfortunate 13th Chapter of the Twin Dragon's never ending nightmare.
> 
> But be warned, as this could prove as triggering to some, since we have some rather graphic scenes of abuse, nudeness and violence, so please be cautious and stay safe

The air is thick and oppressive with malice, an unspoken threat hangs like lead over the training grounds and bright blue eyes glint in defiance, while the thin lips are contorted into an angry snarl.  
The salty taste of blood still clings to Sting's tongue and taunts his throat with a choke lurking deep down in his gorge, so he spits again, as contemptuous as his somewhat pitiful state would allow, before he turns to the towering figure of Jiemma.

It's just the two of them now, for earlier that evening, their Master had actually gone and injured Rogue so severely, he had very nearly bled to death beneath the blonde's shaking, helpless touch.  
If Sting had deemed the broken arm terrible, then the world would have to come up with a new word, to describe the level of horror he'd felt at the sight of a rusty piece of metal goring the Shadow Dragon Slayer.  
This very night, Rogue had actually managed to throw Jiemma off his feet, sent him crashing into the dirt with a satisfying crunch, and maybe it had been the light-headed elation of a hard-won victory or a thoughtless outburst of gloating, but the Shadow Mage had laughed whole-heartedly at their Master's plump attempt to get up.  
Within the blink of an eye, however, a shock-wave, so violent, it forced the air out of Sting's lungs had flung him across the room, into a corner, where some training equipment and hotchpotch was stored; and the piercing outcry of pain the impact elicited, let the blonde know, that this time no guardian angel had been watching. This time something had gone awfully wrong.

Jiemma had tried to stop him from rushing to Rogue's side, but the worry-stricken, rash attack, the White Dragon Slayer had thrown at him offhandedly, sent the brute right back into the dirt.  
Sting neither noticed, nor paid it a heed, eyes solely trained on the panting figure of his best friend, his face faltering in disbelieve, when he found an iron rod protruding from the heaving chest, about fifteen inches below the collarbone; a sea of blood rapidly forming around the wound.  
The red eyes had been wide and terrified as they clung to Sting, paling lips gasping for air and moving in a fruitless attempt to speak, while delicate, trembling hands had reached for the foreign object running right through his body.  
The blonde yelled for help, voice breaking in panic, before he fell to his knees next to Rogue's eerily quiet form and gently pried the clam fingers from the bar, cradling the quaking pair of hands in his lap with a tight, affectionate hold.  
The next thing he knew had been blood dripping from his fingers, blood staining his clothes, blood sinking into the ground, unrestrained and casually, as if it had any right to be there in the first place.  
For a second their eyes found each other, while Rogue struggled to say something, something he deemed so grave and important, his breaths became fleeting and erratic upon finding his vocal cords disobedient.

A wordless plead entered his gaze as his fingers clenched tightly around Sting's, and the already laboured intakes of air turned shallow and ragged.  
“Shh... shh... don't... don't strain yourself... it'll be okay... you hear me? Just look at me. Focus on me... Breathe.... Come on, breathe... like this..”  
For the first time he understood how Rogue must feel, when ever he had to guide Sting through one of his frequent panic attacks - for now he felt the same crushing fear, the same icy helplessness clawing at his throat; and his ears had been ringing in distress.  
With violently quivering hands he'd taken off his vest, tearing at the fabric impatiently, when his fingers proofed too unstable, to open the buckles fastening the garment around his neck, before pressing the cloth to the wound.  
The panting breath hitched, when he started applying pressure, the sound forced and wheezing, before heavily lidded eyes started drooping.  
“No... no, no, no... Rogue... stay with me! Look at me! Here, I'm right here! It'll be fine!”  
he rambled hastily, as he patted the marble-cold cheek, before screaming at the top of his lungs:  
“Help! Anyone, please... I need a healer! Now!”  
A single drop of blood stained the ashen face, mocking a patch of almost translucent skin close to the gasping, blueish lips and for a second the interplay of lifeless skin and deep, dark red seemed morbidly beautiful, as it highlighted the richness and warmth of ruby-like eyes in a nearly surreal way.  
That was, until, with a stuttering sigh and thousand words left unsaid dying on his lips, Rogue's lids slid shut, head lolling back, and his body went limp.  
Sting had already opened his mouth to scream, when a careful, yet firm hand had gripped his shoulder, pushing him aside gently, while simultaneously offering comfort.

“Hush, my boy. It's okay, he's just unconscious... Anyone would be with a wound like that... Move aside, I need some room here.”  
The calm, level-headed aura of Sister Miriam's presence washed over the blonde, soothing his galloping heartbeat and easing the spinning in his head.  
She'd taken over without hesitation, had grasped the situation within a single moment and before Sting had even recognized the two men accompanying her as members of the Guild, volunteering in helping out at the infirmary; one of them had lifted Rogue's torso with strong hands, maintaining a firm hold on his shoulders, while stabilizing his motionless form with a knee behind his back.

An almost unbearable urge to lash out at the two of them took a hold of the White Dragon Slayer, fingers twitching and pulse racing with the desire to tear them away from the lifeless figure, to snarl at them for daring to touch his beloved, but he forced himself to remain silent, to allow them access; because they did, what he couldn't: safe Rogue's life.  
And yet, when the other man yanked out the rod after Miriam's small cue, and an immense gush of blood gurgled from the wound, he came dangerously close to attacking all three of them with every single ounce of power and despair raging through his veins.  
The nurse, however, had obviously sensed the sudden, pain-driven wave of mindless protectiveness drowning the upset boy, so when he'd lunged himself at her small, husky form, she reached out for his forehead with a small, sad smile and her finger glowing an iridescent, soft blue, before whispering:  
“Shh, my boy. Just sleep. Everything will be alright, when you wake.”  
And just like that darkness descended upon Sting.  
He tried to fight it for a moment, reached out in apparent panic, but the relentless waves of a deep, dark ocean pulled him under with an irresistible force.  
He slurred Rogue's name while sinking to the ground, and the next second the alien, suffocating nothingness of narcosis had embraced him.

In the meantime the angry, heavy wound on the Shadow Mage's shoulder had already closed beneath Miriam's nimble fingers, and only a purplish scar remained after the flesh had knitted back together.  
A scar that stood out with obscene contrast to the bloodless, cold skin, and the almost ghostly, anaemic pallor clinging to the fine, chiselled features told her what an immense amount of blood the raven haired boy must have left behind to soak the ground and the fabric, lying abandoned next to him.  
Still, the worst was over, and even if it would take a couple of weeks for the Shadow Dragon Slayer to recover his full power, there wasn't an immediate threat to his life dangling over his head any longer.  
She'd already motioned for her helpers to move his weak form onto a stretcher, when her eyes fell on the pair of hands, one pale and full of scars, the other one sun-tanned and equally calloused, both only a few inches apart, and she remembered Sting reaching out with dying effort, only to fall prey to his dwindling consciousness, before he could actually make contact.  
She ran a gentle hand through his hair then, was already about to have him moved to the infirmary as well, when Jiemma's voice interrupted her harshly.  
“The brat isn't injured, he stays right there. We're not done, yet.”  
“Master Jiemma...” she'd retorted, her voice feisty and reproachful, “As you might have noticed, I put the boy to sleep, to ease the tremendous stress he'd been put under, in order to avoid him succumbing to shock. He won't be doing any fighting tonight.”

“You seem to misunderstand your place woman!” he snarled viciously. “I hired you, to patch them up, should the need arise, not pamper them! So do my bidding and be gone.”  
With two aggressive steps he strode past her and yanked Sting's limp form up, fingers clamped around his neck, before he slapped the boy with the back of his hand a couple of times.  
The brunt of the impact caused his head to loll left and right, before his eyes flew open and a rough, hoarse yelp fell from his cracked lips.  
“Succumb to shock... my ass.” he spat in disgust, “Seems fine to me.”  
He could have simply put Sting down, but being the ruthless bastard that he was, he had to thrust him into the ground hard enough to have the still feeble limbs buckle right beneath the weight.  
“He stays here! Get the other one out of my sight, before I teach him again, that no one's to laugh about their Master!”  
Miriam stood tall, bristling like a cat, but uncertain how to proceed, obviously debating how to get Sting out of the situation without endangering Rogue, when a breathless, strained plead reached her.

“Please... get going. Help him, don't waste your time on me! Just... just make sure, Rogue will be alright.  
Please...”  
There had been an ocean of unshed tears welling up in the marine-blue, lively eyes, as they lingered on the dark-haired boy fearfully, and Sting's hoarse voice broke, when inquiring:  
“You can do that, right? You can heal him?”  
It was heartbreaking and Miriam wanted to just take the blonde's hand and lead him over to the still form of the Shadow Dragon Slayer, to have him see for himself, how neatly the wound had closed, how steady and stubbornly the trusting, beautiful heart beat beneath the ugly scar, but Jiemma moved into her way, and all but shooed her out of the sparing ring.

Sting used the moment of distraction to close his eyes briefly and strain his ears, searching for a certain sound in the chaos of noises and released the breath he'd been holding for so, so long, upon detecting the familiar pulse almost drowned by the rash snuffing of Master Jiemma.  
The rhythm came softer than usual, but otherwise unchanged – and like any other time, the sound resonated with something deep down in his chest.  
The sensation grounded him, gave him courage and hope; woke righteous wrath and strength-  
so when a brute attack had him roll over the ground once again, he barely felt any pain; only the bitter warmth of blood rising behind his tightly clenched lips.

“So that's how things are, I see... “ Jiemma roars. “You insolent brats dared to play me for a fool... Tell me, have you been sucking each other's cocks, while secretly congratulating yourselves on the disgraceful little act you put up?  
You've probably been fucking right under my nose, laughing your asses off at my expanse. You disgusting fags! I've given you a warning, but you decided to spite me like that... You'll pay for this. Both of you.”

With that he flings a comparatively small attack at the White Dragon Slayer, but when the blonde makes for blocking it, charges out of nowhere, ramming his elbow into the unguarded midriff, before he kicks the boy's temple with such a tremendous force, Sting is out cold before he even hits the ground.

He comes to when his upper body starts seizing in agony, and finds himself surrounded by the dreadful, mouldy walls of the pit, hanging weakly and stiff in the unyielding, brutish grip of iron chains dangling from the ceiling.  
The tips of his toes barely scrape over the floor, so his weight is only supported by his shoulders and the joints screech and ache in protest, while a pang of white hot pain sears through his skull.  
“Finally awake, are we?” Jiemma's voice echoes through the suffocating silence, as he saunters over to the bound Dragon Slayer, allowing his fleshy fingers to trail lecherously over the naked chest and abdomen.  
He'd stripped the blonde almost bare, safe for the thin linen briefs, but the garment exposes just as much as it conceals and the huge bulge in Jiemma's already too tight pants tells Sting everything he needs to know. But somehow it doesn't terrify him all that much this night, doesn't cause his throat to tighten or his legs to feel faint.  
Tonight too many horrible things took place all at once; tonight something irreplaceably precious and dear to him had been direly injured; tonight he'd almost lost one of the few things illuminating his dull life to Jiemma's merciless, spiteful creeds once again.  
He'd been insulted, humiliated, beaten and mocked, so the prospect of being violated on top of it all doesn't scare him as much as it should.  
No...  
Tonight it just pisses him off.  
He feels a churning abyss opening up inside of him, as fury, disgust, hatred and worry swirl through his veins.  
Then there's the echo of Rogue's voice ringing in his mind, kindling a sensation of deep, unconditional love and longing in his heart, that warms him to the core, fills every last shivering cell of his body with a feeling of belonging, that stemms from years upon years of friendship and trust.

“The thing he hates most in his life and how it destroys what he loves more than anything...”

Until tonight Sting didn't even have to think twice about what those words meant to him, for he could see it clearly every day anew.  
He doesn't have to imagine the sadness, the pain darkening gorgeous, ruby eyes and the hopeless little sigh the raven-haired boy breathed when he deemed Sting asleep in the dead of night, because he witnesses all this in every waking moment of his life.  
He has to watch helplessly, as what he treasures most in this world gets ruined ceaselessly, can't do anything but stand by idly, when with each passing day a little bit of the carefree, warm, empathic person Rogue used to be, dies. Buried beneath layers upon layers of despair, concern and grief.  
It's an ache that festers deep in his bones, eroding him as well as his best friend and it has him loathing the cause for all that sorrow with passion.  
He had tried time and again, to somehow focus this hatred, channel it and use it to awaken the power hidden in his blood, but to no avail.  
Tonight, however, it seems, as if Sting came to understand something fundamental....

Jiemma circles behind him, runs his oversized hands up and down the muscular chest, rubs his throbbing erection against the firm curve of Sting's rear, while he licks the blonde's neck, blowing puff after puff of foul-smelling breath into the contorted face.  
His fingers follow the hard, cramped muscles of quadriceps and biceps upwards, until he reaches the rusty handcuffs keeping the Dragon Slayer upright, and yanks the bloody, sore hands loose.  
Sting falls to his knees with a hard thud, that rattles his bones and has his jaw clatter, but before he can even so much as massage his raw, butchered wrists, a rock-hard dick is shoved into his face, while rough fingers fist into his hair.  
“Come on now, you know the drill... Be a nice little whore and show me, how good you've gotten. I bet you've been practising every night with sweet darling Rogue. Tell me, do you swallow his load?”

Sting is trembling. Eyes teary and head lowered, he kneels on a layer of decaying, mucky straw were he had spit a at least a dozen mouths full of semen and the sole thought of the bitter, sordid taste taunting his tongue once again, has him quaking.  
“Oh, well aren't you eager tonight... Look at you, do you want it so bad, you're already shaking with longing? Go ahead, suck it off... or I'll have Rogue's meagre ass dragged here within the minute, injured or not, and I'll make you watch while I fuck him up.”

Later onward, Sting wouldn't be able to tell, if the threat to his loved one had finally caused him to snap or the single drop of a sticky liquid dripping from the stiff rod in front of his eyes in anticipation.  
But without even realizing it, he'd been pushed over a thin, well-hidden line at some point during the seemingly never-ending evening, and now that he's ventured beyond that special point there is no going back any more.  
His heartbeat quietens, his breathing becomes steady and slow, as his mind goes blank safe for a bottomless, ice-cold hatred, that leaves no place for fear or doubts.  
“Why don't you just go suck it yourself, you damn bastard?” He growls, voice low and calm, but more dangerous than ever.  
The room falls perfectly silent, except for a faint drip-dropping of water from the ceiling, and Jiemma breaths incredulously:  
“What did you just say?” 

It might very well be the first time anyone had ever dared to speak to him like that, so he seems absolutely dumbfounded, before a raw, unlimited fury flickers over his features.  
But if he had expected Sting to falter and and cave, he's in for a surprise, since the blonde looks him dead in the eye, gaze as hard and unforgiving as stone, before he repeats his words.  
“I said: Why don't you just go and suck it yourself? Actually, while you're at it, you can go fuck yourself as well.”  
“You insolent brat! How dare you talk to me like that? You nasty, ungrateful piece of trash...” He seems rabid with rage, as he slaps the boy repeatedly, splits his lip and causes stars to dance in front of the darkening vision.  
He hoists the panting form up, clamps a brutal hand around the still tender wrists, and presses the blonde against the wall, while his other hand already reaches for the last layer of fabric covering him, and the fingers brush his sensitive groin harshly in the process.  
Sting screams - a primal, agonizing sound, lamenting his innocence, his childhood and the sweet pleasures of shy, first love, so viciously stolen from him, until suddenly, everything comes undone.

Suddenly he realizes, that Rogue had been absolutely right, with everything he'd ever said, and one thing in particular...  
“I just think about what I hate most in this world” - and only now, here, with a rough, claiming hand already halfway down his boxers to paw his balls, it dawns upon him, that he'd gotten it wrong all the time.

The thing he hated more than anything in the world; the thing, that DESERVED this level of abomination more than anything, wasn't he himself after all...

All at once the suffocating weight of self-loath tumbles from his heart, as he realizes, that it isn't him, who keeps on destroying anything he holds dear – his happiness, his soundness, his ability to trust, and most of all his kindred soul - but this abusive, disgusting bastard right in front of his eyes.  
And maybe, if only he managed to defeat his demons right here and now, he could come to terms with the guilt and the shame forever haunting him, could somehow forgive himself and finally start moving forward again, towards the light that sparkled through Rogue's eyes when ever he laughed.

A light so warm and bright and beautiful, Sting could see it behind closed lids, could feel it running throughout his whole body, where it coaxes something awake, that had lain dormant deep within his bones.  
It's a soft, gentle sensation at first, like the early rays of sunlight dawning over the horizon, but then it gains momentum, rushes through his veins blindingly bright, all-consuming and so very much alive, it makes Sting shudder, as it finally erupts all around him, leaving him bathed in super-nova of a whiteness, so pristine, so untouched and holy, he can't believe, that someone as stained and tainted as him could emit such a breathtaking token of sheer beauty.

His draconic legacy hums through his heart, bestows scales of the purest white upon his skin and his hair floods around his head in a halo as golden as the sun itself.  
Something whispers to him in a tongue older than time, and Sting listens; understands, that he, too, is still as innocent and pure as his magic and the revelation gives him strength.  
Had Rogue seen him then, standing his ground tall and proud, as he takes on the devil that had demeaned, abused, mocked and threatened him, with his head held high and eyes aglow, he'd probably found his breath snatched away.  
But the almost divine sight is wasted on Jiemma's eyes alone – Sting, however, gives him no chance to gape.  
In a whirlwind of the fairest, most iridescent glow he forces the ogrish form up against the wall, while razor sharp lasers rain down like a shower of cruel shooting stars, leaving fizzling marks of bright red burns where ever they hit the almost naked form.  
By now the once throbbing erection had gone flaccid in shock and the sight only adds to the sudden air of pathetic, awkward defeat cloaking Jiemma's unbelieving form.  
Sting doesn't relent, sends attack after attack at the stumbling figure, his throat strangely tingling with what he now realises is harsh, unforgiving laughter.  
All the dams inside of his tormented, mistreated soul are breaking and a storm-surge of pitch-black vengeance, repulsion and abhorrence threatens to sweep him away, as the crashing waves of ancient magic demand the blood of the one who'd not only hurt him, but also dared, to etch his mark into the one thing he had sworn to protect with his life.  
So he almost loses himself in this raging blood-lust, feels his head swimming with intoxication, as if he'd tasted a strong, heady wine and only the memory of eyes just as deep, rich and alluring keeps him from actually delivering a fatal blow.

He shakes his head harshly, trying to come to his senses, pushes back the primal instincts to kill what ever dared to oppose him, for he couldn't allow Jiemma to make a murderer out of him on top of everything else.  
He could never allow his fingers to ever touch Rogue again, if something as filthy and vile as their Master's blood was to stain them.  
Thus he stalks over to the slumped form, trousers still hanging around his ankles; the sight nothing but pathetic and despicable, and sets one foot casually on the heaving throat.  
Jiemma's eyes, as hollow and piercing as ever, look at him hazily, while fear courses through them obvious and pitiful, and he tries to scramble away from the unearthly figure that is the White Dragon Slayer in all his beauty and pride.  
Sting only adds more pressure to his foot, keeps the struggling man pinned to the ground with ease, while conjuring up a sharp, vicious spear of stark white light in his hand; the weapon pointed casually at the gagging, oversized chest.

“You...” the intimidating voice rages at Sting, “How dare you threaten me? I'll kill you!  
Hell; I'll tie you up, and tear Cheney limb from limb right in front of your eyes, as I fuck him into the next world...”  
The blonde flings the attack with an almost casual flick of his wrist and the blank, emotionless eyes of their Master widen in apparent pain, before he chokes and gags on a gush of blood welling up in his guts.  
Sting watches him suffocate impassively for a couple of moments, before he lifts the bare sole of his foot a few inches, to kick the gurgling head into a sideways position.  
For once, the blood of his tormentor seeps into the rotting ground and the White Dragon Slayer is almost disappointed, to find it more or less identical to his own; would have wished for it to splutter the floor black and putrid like the fluids of a long-dead body.

With the tip of his toe he turns the stained, blood- and vomit covered face back up, before he presses his heel into the thick adam's apple again; trying his best not to flinch, when he feels it bob beneath his touch.  
He doesn't even bother with a weapon this time, just allows the aura of light around him to bustle and brim threateningly, as he speaks up; his eyes harsh and uncompromising, voice coming as nothing but a rancorous growl.  
“You will do no such thing.” He states almost calmly, punching the emotionless, enigmatic face with a fist cloaked in dazzling, white-hot energy.

The former proud and violent form of their Master ducks down, as an executioner's sword of crystalline clarity forms in the blonde's expecting hand, and he lowers it to the gagging throat in an open menace.  
“If you ever even think about laying a single finger on Rogue; if you even so much as dare to utter the smallest threat into his direction... I swear to any God listening, I will kill you.  
And it will be slow and hideous, because I won't give a single fucking damn about what happens to me afterwards.  
You hurt him ever again, and I will kill you. In this very room, with my very own hands if I have to, just like the fucking maggots you once made me take on; because that would actually be a death worthy for vermin like you.”  
His tone is level-headed and incidental, as if he was giving his ideas about the upcoming weather, but the look of blatant animosity in his eyes has him appear almost like a beautifully cruel avenging angel.  
“And should you touch me ever again; should you ever so much as even have wet dreams about me, I will rip off your balls and castrate you. Did I make myself clear?”  
With that being said, he slams the glittering sword right between the slightly spread, naked legs, allowing the blade to nick the sensitive skin of throbbing, blueish testis ever so slightly.  
Jiemma's eyes roll into the back of his head, and his body lies still, when Sting steps over his bared form, his limbs trembling with a feeling he isn't sure one lifetime would be enough to put into words.

Rogue wakes to the sound of water running and his heart drops heavily within the second.  
So it was going to be one of those nights after all...  
He'd been allowed to return to their room after pestering Sister Miriam for almost an hour, pleading with her, demonstrating, that he was just fine – he'd been lucky one of the younger members of the Guild had obviously bumped her head and passed out, so she had been called from his room just in time before witnessing his still quivering legs giving way beneath his body; sending him to the floor painfully.  
She had caved in the end, mostly because his motivation had been obvious and she couldn't help but smile to herself, but had been unwaveringly demanding to check on him, during the night.  
Rogue had complied without a single word of protest.

And though he'd been hell-bent on waiting for Sting to return, he must have nodded off at some point during the evening.  
A too-familiar stench still hangs in the air – a stench of sweat, blood, dirt and despair and everything rancid, that belonged to the pit- and yet, there is something amiss tonight, even though the Shadow Dragon Slayer can't put his finger on it.  
Somehow all the sensations seem sharper, closer and unconcealed. For example the gushing of water rings louder throughout the darkness of their room, almost as if...  
He lifts his head with a little effort and, in deed, finds the bathroom-door not only unlocked, but wide open. A sight he would have bet to never see again.  
Maybe Sting finally started to open up about those things kept under a tight lock down in the pit...  
Or maybe, after witnessing the dreadful injury Rogue had sustained, he only wanted to make sure, he could keep an eye on him...  
Who knows...  
The raven-haired boy is already allowing himself to drift off again, body still exhausted and aching, prepared for at least another half an hour of the constant splashing and scrubbing, but after ten minutes the shower already stops and blonde leaves the bathroom, only clad in soft sweat-pants, with a towel slung around his shoulders.

Cooling drops of water fall from his hair like inaudible little silver chimes, clinging to his neck and trailing down his chest.  
He rubs the golden strands roughly, flinging the towel into the general direction of the laundry hamper, before tip-toeing over to his side of the bed.  
They had never bothered with separating their beds again, once they'd been shoved against one another, and though neither had ever admitted to it aloud, both can't sleep without their other half close.

“Sting? Hey... what happened? You okay?” The Shadow Dragon Slayer inquires quietly, but still causing the blonde to jump.  
“Oh... hey there...” he mutters, words sweet and breathless in surprise .  
“Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. Everything's fine, go back to sleep....”  
Sting slides beneath the sheets, a tight ball curled up into himself, and even though his arms are slung around his knees and he maintains a rather firm hold of his limbs, Rogue can feel the mattress quaking.

“Sting? Are you hurt?”  
No answer, so he asks again, this time a little more urgent, a little more upset, and only now the other responds.  
“Yeah... No... Maybe a little... But you're off far worse, so don't conc-”  
The soft, warm voice interrupts his rambling gently:  
“It's my decision whether I will concern myself with your well-being or not...”  
He senses movement, maybe a bit groggy, maybe a bit sluggish, but all in all far more lively, certain and whole than he had ever dared to hope for.  
The sober light of their bed-side lamp bathes the room in a golden glow and Sting finds himself looked over by fond, caring eyes.  
Eyes, that widen, when they find the bruise on his forehead and the bloodied, torn wrists.  
He'd cleaned the wounds best as he could, even applied a cool, soothing ointment, so that by now, he barely even feels a stinging there, but he understands, that the sight must upset his friend – his heart clenches, too, whenever his gaze trails over the dark, bulging scar now marring his smooth chest.  
And before he can even stop himself, he'd reached out cautiously, to trail a shivering finger over the rough patch of skin, as he mumbles:  
“You scared the shit out of me, earlier... Does it still hurt?”  
A choked “No... 'm sorry” is his only answer, until Rogue takes a nonrestraining loose hold of the mistreated hands, as he whispers:  
“May I?”

Sting isn't too sure what he's up to, but nods anyway; there wasn't a reason for him to distrust his friend; what awaited him was probably a chaste, affectionate act of comfort – and of course he's right.  
The Shadow Dragon Slayer lifts the graceful fingers and trails a hushed, warm breath over the angry cuts and bruises, before actually allowing his lips to brush the wounded skin.  
His movements are slow, patient and barely noticeable as he covers each and every slash with the most loving caress, and the air around them starts growing intimate and still. Ever so slowly, Sting inches closer, craving a deeper connection and helplessly drawn towards the unspoken promise of unconditional solace, Rogue emits, but he still doesn't dare erasing the last little gap.  
With the blonde almost completely encircled by Rogue's crescent form, the Shadow Dragon Slayer finds another small, but somehow curious detail changed- for the first time since God knows how long, the almost pungent smell of detergents doesn't cling to the tanned skin, only Sting's scent – hayflowers, pine and summer-meadows – accompanied by the fresh sensation of a rather neutral soap.  
He didn't even realise, how much he'd missed the smell, so he nuzzles his nose into the still wet, unruly locks and finally Sting allows himself the contact he needs so very obviously; rests his head shyly on the milkwhite chest and sighs a content, tuneless hum, when deft fingers start combing through his bangs and caress his face.

All in all, those were but tiny, nearly imperceptible changes, yet, in their entirety, they made Rogue not only wonder, but also hope. What for, he isn't too sure, so he actually finds the heart to ask for once.  
“Sting, what's wrong? Something has happened in the pit, something changed... I can tell. You're shaking... Can't you share with me what went down tonight?”  
He whispers into the tuft of golden hair beneath his lips, sneaks his arms around the trembling shoulders, as he rocks Sting slowly, but only a soft shaking of head is his answer.

He already feels pain stabbing at his heart, but then a strangely relieved, light voice replies:  
“Rogue... I... I will tell you. Really, I promise. Of course you're right, a lot of things happened tonight... And I promise I will tell you... But there's still some stuff I have to sort out first... And I'll be honest with you... Some of it will hurt, and some of it will hurt even more, but that's something I gotta do, first, in order to keep moving forward.  
Could you... for now... just be patient with me? Could you just stay with me for the time being?”  
Before he can even go on, can suppress the thick strain of tears worming its way into his words, he finds himself pulled in closer, tucked safely into the crook of Rogue's neck, the soothing heartbeat his lullaby, and a pair of warm, gentle lips kissing the tip of his nose good-night.

That night, Sting Eucliffe, whom rest had shunned for hours upon hours of relentless tossing and turning, who's slumber had been haunted by nightmares and crushing fears, ends up falling asleep within five minutes flat -  
Rogue's breaths ghosting over his skin, long fingers tangled into his hair, and the sweet, pliant lips pressed ardently to his sleep-mellowed brow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do I actually take so much pleassure in hurting Rogue??
> 
> I have no idea, actually... But still, it gave Sting the "incentive", they'd talked about... And boy, it was one of the easiest scenes to write ever... Clubber Jiemma into the dust? Yes please, could do that for a hundred pages...
> 
> I hope, you had fun reading!
> 
> Thanks for your relentless support, and please be safe!
> 
> Dearest greetings,  
> TGA


	14. Don't touch my heart, rot is miasmal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A soul where pain and doubt are festering will eventually shun the light, will bite the hand, that feeds and when darkness lowers the final veil, even the sweetest, warmest kiss will taste sordid and vile.  
> Where once sunlight dwelled a bitter seed is blooming and the briars are bearing thorns.  
> Thorns to prick the caring hand that reaches out, time and again, despite the blood and through the pain to weed the vines and heal, what hatred had defiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there guys, and welcome back to Sting and Rogue's never ending nightmare Chapter 14.  
> Today with a warm, cozy morning, sleepy realisations and cuddles.  
> All in all a sweet, little Chapter to lead over to the next stage.  
> Yupp, definitely not angsty or anything *cough*.

The morning dawns all quiet and cozy, the world hidden behind a thick veil of fog, that could easily conjure the illusion, the small dorm was a secluded, tranquil bubble made only for the two of them and their Exceeds .  
The outside has backed away, noises muted, save for the constant drumming of rain against the window panes and the soft rustling of leafs, as the wind has them dance over the glass; while the dark, grey sky softens the harsh edges and contours of reality beneath a layer of monochrome stillness.  
Everything breaths an air of intimate, pensive silence, that somehow hums in resonance with the lazy heartbeats coming from the island of pristine white that makes up their bed.

Rogue wakes gently, for once without a start or the sudden feeling of falling, more like drifting back towards the surface after having been cradled by a hazy, warm darkness, almost like a memoryless, all-encompassing womb of nothingness.  
The very first sensation that enters his still floating consciousness is the detached realization, that the bed somehow smells different today.  
The usual itching in his nose is amiss, as no intense, stinging perfume penetrates his senses, only a familiar, almost nostalgic scent of sleep-warm, sun-kissed skin, hay-flowers and pine.  
It coaxes a smile onto his features, honest, mellow and lopsided, but still bright enough, that the small movement has something soft tickle the sensitive skin of his lips like a feather.  
His chin is resting atop a mop of unruly, golden hair, that is fanned out in a ridiculous explosion of silky strands spilled over the pillow, and since he already finds himself in a more than convenient position, he nuzzles the blonde crown gently.  
He inhales timidly, and yet with a certain neediness, as if he was afraid, the other boy would notice his blunder and hide the pure summer-scent of his, once again behind a veil of flashy cologne.  
Its absence is a small miracle in itself, a miracle, that Rogue had stored away for further pondering later on, but the bigger oddity the new day brought, is the fact, that Sting isn't only still dead asleep, but also serene and sound, and in his arms.

Usually the Shadow-Dragon-Slayer would wake to an empty bed; the linen cold and impassive, while the blonde was already up and about for at least an hour; exercising, running or punching the living daylights out of the dummies in the training area, until he was too exhausted to go on.  
What Rogue doesn't know, however, is, that before sneaking out of their bed, Sting would always watch him sleep for a couple of transfixed, blissful minutes, where he quietly takes in the other's relaxed, tranquil features and sometimes also dares to brush the dark bangs out of twitching, closed eyes, to press a chaste, oh so very gentle kiss to the ivory skin.

But still, despite of all those shy, fond gestures of trust, and even though the contact calms and comforts him so, so beautifully, Sting rarely ever allows to be held through the night, in fear of hurting his best friend unwillingly in a state of panic or nightmarish confusion.  
Sometimes they fall asleep curled around each other, or one's head on the other's chest; long fingers carding through silken tresses with abandon; but the blonde would always draw back at some point during the night.  
And yet, the quiet, silver morning finds him cradled cautiously in Rogue's steady embrace, his features unguarded, unspoiled and so very vulnerable, with his sighingly parted lips tickling the hollow of the other's throat and the slow puffs of air leaving goose-bumps in their wake.  
Rogue blinks himself awake and is absolutely awestruck.  
For the first time in years Sting seems completely at ease - gone are the tension in his jaw and the harshness around his eyes; his brow has unclenched and the ghost of a smile plays around his mouth.  
A smile, that brightens ever so slightly, when careful, pale fingers brush back unruly bangs and trail over smooth, yet bruised skin with a touch, so sweet and loving, it would have brought tears to the blonde's eyes, had he been conscious.  
But right now he's dead to the world and submerged deep in the curative grasp of dreamless sleep, what gives Rogue the chance to count freckles and lashes, scars and welts; to simply watch him BREATH, while his fingers map out the face he has come to love so fiercely, it almost terrifies him.

By now he can't think of any other other word even remotely suitable to describe the feeling – so the helpless concern, the raging urge to protect, the need, to ease his burdens and sooth his sufferings; the crushing ache when he cried, the stuttering of his heart when he laughed, the deep, wholehearted contentment, now that he has him close and within his arms – all of this could only be love; there was nothing else left.  
It had been a steady friendship once, built on a solid base of unwavering trust and affection, but as the years went by, something had pulled them towards one another with irresistible force, so that they'd crossed the thin line to the unknown territory beyond at some point without even realizing it.  
But now, with nothing more than a hair's width between them this last ridiculously tiny gap seems as far and wide as a canyon to Rogue.  
There's so much anger, fear and pain trapped inside of Sting's heart, so many traumata still to uncover and face, that he isn't too certain, if the blonde would ever even allow himself to be loved in the first place.  
Sometimes the Shadow Dragon Slayer is convinced, that just like the blonde refused himself to be comforted throughout the night, he wouldn't accept being cared for either, for the same crooked, stubborn reasons.  
And then there was the problem with physical closeness, a problem that seems somewhat laughable right at the moment, with Sting cradled fondly against his chest, quietly nuzzling into his neck...  
But there are still days, when the White Dragon Slayer appears distant, small and lost in the firm, cruel grip of replaying memories, as he stares off into space, curled into a tight little ball, trying to count himself back to safety.  
Those days are the ones, that almost break both of them every single time anew, for Sting would flinch at the mere sound of Rogue's voice even if it was but a soft whisper and shy away, until he was pressed flush into a corner, as soon as the other boy would try to approach him.  
Rogue had learned quickly, to stay clear when ever his friend was in this particular state, for any attempt at contact would distress him beyond saying, inevitably leading to him going into a hyperventilating rigour. So the Shadow Dragon Slayer would quietly huddle against the opposite wall, pretending to read or otherwise busy his fingers with calm, repetitive motions.  
He'd taken up stone carving about two years ago only to give himself something to do, something to keep his own mind occupied, while Sting somehow clawed his way out of whatever terrors were to haunt him. He always carries the sharp, little knife with him, never leaves it behind, no matter where he goes; mostly because it had been a birthday present from Sting and he cherishes it, but also for completely different, much darker reasons. 

He'd gotten quite good at coaxing the greenish soapstone into whatever form he desired, as if the object had always lain hidden inside the mineral and he merely pried it free and sooner or later the blonde would always inch closer; it was just a matter of time.  
Almost like a shy, but curious animal, he'd approach his friend, until he could finally rest his head on Rogue's shoulder, letting him know, that his presence wasn't considered a threat any longer.  
They'd sit like that for hours upon hours, often without the need of even a single word... Sting leaning heavily against his side, watching the nimble fingers moulding the stone into dragons, cats and beautiful ornaments - silent, mesmerized, small and lost -while the pale cheek was nestled against his crown. Sometimes, when it's been a few bad days in a row, he'd fall asleep like that, shivering even in slumber.  
Rogue would carry him over to their bed, and the blonde would grab his hand and plead with him, to stay, to not abandon him – sorry, sorry – he knew, we was a mess and a fuck-up, didn't deserve any of the other's kindness...  
Rogue always lies down next to him, waits for allowance to ease his arms around his shaking form, caresses his hair, his tear-stained cheeks and only when he's made sure, that his friend is sound asleep, he would sometimes dare to weep in silence.  
He'd trail desperate, feather-light, trembling kisses over the golden spikes and the furrowed brow- kisses that leave tears in their wake and still aren't enough to convey even half of the sadness, the affection he feels. And all he can do, to somehow ease the pain, is pull Sting's motionless form closer and breath.

So, considering all those burdens, he can't simply throw caution to the wind and take the last step, can't bring himself to lean in and claim those soft, full lips for he fears scaring Sting away with a thoughtless touch.  
He's half certain, that this wouldn't even be the case, for as time went by, the caresses they exchanged had become more and more intimate, and it had actually been Sting himself who'd added the small, innocent kisses to forehead or nose to the unwritten list of touches that were welcomed, the morning Rogue woke from the lich grub- poisoning... And still...  
So, instead of following the demands of his fluttering heart, he plays it safe and nudges Sting's brow with the tip of his nose, before pressing his lips to the warm skin in a tender, ardent way.  
He senses movement then, a tiny, lazy stirring, before the White Dragon Slayer sighs with a little hum and rubs his head against Rogue's jaw like a lazy, content cat, before snuggling in closer, face pressed into the craned, elegant neck, arms tightening around the slim waist.  
“Hmm... g'd morning...” he yawns, but otherwise doesn't move an inch. A few heartbeats pass, before his voice rings through the silence again, still thick and slurred with sleep.  
“Hey... how's your chest? Still hurting?”  
And Rogue looks down at his form, languidly and dishevelled, the blonde head resting right above the ugly scar, and suddenly a feeling of calm, serene satisfaction blooms right beneath the reassuring weight, when he sees the sweet smile playing around Sting's features.  
“Hmm, it's fine... It just “stings” a little...”  
For a moment there is silence, then sapphire eyes look up at him in disbelieve, before he asks absolutely incredulous:  
“Did you just... like... crack the worst pun in the history of mankind?”  
For a second Rogue grins smugly, then he finds himself on the receiving end of an onslaught of tickles and nudges, that reduce him to a wheezing, squealing mess in a matter of seconds.  
“You... are... absolutely... unbelievable... “ Sting snorts, as he attacks the shaking flanks mercilessly, but mindful to stay away from the still sore flesh.  
“Why do I even worry about you?” He huffs, as he finally relents and drops back down onto the mattress.  
Right next to him Rogue is a gorgeous, breathless wreck, as he gasps for air, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks and his whole body boneless and limp.

“Because you love me...”  
He pants, before his clearly oxygen-depraved brain can even start to process what exactly he'd just said.  
And only when Sting's face falters, humour bleeding from his features, to give way to open surprise and something akin to – Shock? Grief? - does he realize just how royally he'd fucked up.  
But then Sting regains his composure and forces a cocky grin onto his lips, as he retorts:  
“Yeah, sure... Who in their right mind would love a nerd like you?”  
He regrets it, the moment the words have left his mouth. He had just tried to come up with some stupid joke to dispel the sudden feeling of insecurity, awkwardness that had befallen the room, but what he said had been nothing but mean and insulting, and Rogue didn't deserve it one bit.  
'You damn idiot... Why... just why do you have to keep hurting him like that? You pathetic waste of space hadn't survived one single night in the pit without his constant comfort and support... He's done so fucking much for you throughout the years... And of course you love him... Always have, always will... Fucking congrats on being the single most shitty asshole in existence...'  
A harsh voice in his mind is yelling at him full force, as remorse makes his stomach churn, but deep down he knows, it's for the best.  


He's almost certain, that Rogue feels for him in more than just friendly ways and this is something he cannot allow.  
The realisation came to him the second the small drop of pre-cum had dripped from Jiemma's cock and it had hit him full force - he had strayed so far from the light, had allowed their Master to taint him for years upon years without ever putting up much of a fight... How he could have assumed, the deepening relationship to his best friend could lead to anything - let alone something "beautiful" as he'd called it in a moment of love-blinded folly - is beyond him. Rogue was gentle, smart, strong and beautiful and he deserved to be loved by someone who wasn't all messed up, dirty and pitiful.  
Thus he had silently wowed, to never act on those feelings, neither Rogue's nor his own, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how his bleeding heart cried, he had to swallow all of this, because he owed it to his best friend to not drag him down with the sinking shipwreck of his general existence.  
Rogue would move on eventually and he'd find someone worthy of his affection, someone who could actually offer him something, instead of constantly taking and requiring, someone who's heart was still whole and untainted.  
Someone, who wouldn't keep on hurting him.  
The only problem with his oh so very valiant intentions was the fact, that Sting was too weak and pathetic, to actually manage without Rogue's closeness, couldn't bring himself to reject those countless, sweet little touches, those small, soft kisses and the feeling of his arms around him. He has become so used to and dependant of the affectionate, tender caresses they had always showered one another in, that now he feels like he can't go a single day without the warmth of Rogue's skin. No matter how hard he'd tried to distance himself the previous night, he didn't actually succeed, had allowed himself to give in, mindless and unresisting like a leaf sinking to the ground, because – damn, each and every touch from Rogue's hands, his lips was pure and utter bliss, that calmed his nerves as much as it set them on fire.  
But no more. He'd indulged himself long enough in the countless gentle gestures and tokens of affection, without ever giving anything back in return. It was high time, he finally did. Even if it the only thing he could offer to Rogue was his freedom.  
And if he had to hurt him, to drive him away, to force him to forget about the fuck-up he'd called his best friend, then be it so.  
It wasn't like it wouldn't pain him just as much.  
So he bites back the urge to apologize and takes the aching jolt flashing though dark red eyes as his rightful punishment, before he scrambles out of bed awkwardly and stumbles into his clothes.  
“Ahh, I think, I'mma grab a bite to eat... Later!”  
With that he's out of the door and Rogue is left alone all of a sudden, upset and lost within sea of rapidly cooling sheets, that still harbour the scent of sunlight itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, man... what have I done?
> 
> In all honesty I was this close to actually having them all sappy and lovey-dovey, as they finally take this last little step, but then I was like naaaah... Why make them kiss, when I can make them suffer some more?  
> As if they'd need more of that... And additionally I wanted to somehow transport, that recovery isn't a straight and easy road.  
> It's not like "Yeah, I took my revenge, I dealt with my tormentor and now, that I've found love everything's going to be fine magically."  
> Nope, that's not how it works...  
> So... let there be angst.  
> Sorry, not sorry.
> 
> Have my greatest thanks for reading, as always!
> 
> Be greeted and take care!
> 
> TGA


	15. When the last curtain falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have laid myself bare in front of your crying eyes, so that you can dry your tears with the gauze that I've shed and the salt may clean my wounds.  
> I am naked in front of you, have burned down any place left to hide, so that you might see, what I've hidden so deep.  
> So that you may see my soul trembling under your gaze.  
> And as you reach out for my skin, I just hope, that there is enough left of me for you to touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there guys...  
> And welcome to a new round of TGA fails at dialogue.  
> This Chapter was nothing but a bitch to write, since I do so royally suck when it comes to quiet one-on-one dialogue.  
> I hope you can forgive me for this and I'd highly appreciate any criticism.  
> Don't be startled, if you find the Chapter altered a couple of times, later on. Maybe I'll come up with the one or the other improvement...  
> But for now: Here's your new Chapter, which isn't angsty or anything.  
> Nope, nothing but fluff, rainbows and unicorns. Nothing else to see.

_Where did you get them scars?_

_How blue is your heart?_

_Is it sad enough to break? [...]_

 

_How long was your life?_

_Was it cold and strange like mine?_

_Are you man enough to lay here?_

**The Gaslight Anthem, Blue Dahlia**

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The door clicks shut and Rogue slumps back down onto the pillows groaning.

“Fuuuuck...” he sighs, so hopelessly defeated, frustrated and fed up, he doesn't even know, where to start.

His mind is going a thousand miles per hour, screaming at him, reproaching, nagging and constantly reminding him, that he was probably the biggest idiot in history.

Just why did he have to run his mouth without thinking, why did he say something so obviously stupid, when only moments before he'd been pondering Sting's insecurities and issues with closeness.

“Splendid...”, he mumbles sourly. “Just so very fucking splendid... “

 

It's been clearly visible, that the innocent remark had distressed the blonde more than it should have, so he'd probably gone and driven him away, without ever meaning to...

Still... Sting's reaction stood in no proportion to what had been said, therefore Rogue suspects, he might have met a sore spot of truth and the other one had for some reason felt caught red-handed... thus short-circuiting and flinging the first bullshit that had crossed his mind right back at his friend.

And yet, hearing the mocking, rather cold words fall from Sting's lips hurt like all hell. Even more so, since he'd slept peacefully snuggled up against his chest only moments ago, seemingly content and at ease in his arms... but what did he know?

Sting's behaviour had always been quite volatile when it came to physical contact – on more than one occasion he seemed to desperately crave the careful, sweet gestures of affection, helplessly chasing after the deft fingers, pouting and rubbing his head against Rogue's shoulder until he continued trailing the gentle caresses over the smooth, soft skin.

But other times he'd retreat into himself, a grief-stricken expression marring his features, as he brushed his friend off curtly, evasive of even the smallest of touches.

 

“Hey, Rogue...” a small voice pipes up, as a tiny ball of pink fluff hops into his lap,

“Don't be sad! Frosch loves you! See?”

The sweet Exceed wriggles her way up to his shoulder, before nuzzling his forehead with her nose, the green fur a tickling blur in his eyes and her weight warm and comforting in the cold morning air.

“There, I gave you a smoochie! Sting said, when you like someone very much, you may give them smoochies. And Sting must know, for he does it all the time.”

 

“I love you, too, little one, you're a darling...”

Rogue reaches up and scratches her head right behind the ears absent-mindedly, when something Frosch said makes him sit up and take notice.

“Wait... what exactly do you mean with Sting does it all the time? Do you mean the handful of times he's kissed my forehead? That's hardly what you'd call all the time...”

For some reason a pang of disappointment runs through his heart, but he laughs the pain away forcibly as he tickles the soft, pink-clad belly fondly, causing his Exceed to squeal in delight, before she unfurls her wings and escapes his quick, wriggling fingers by soaring around his head.

“But... but... Sting does this almost ev...” The rest of her words is cut off quickly by a hasty, urgent hushing.

“Shh, Frosch... Will you keep your mouth shut??” Lector has appeared out of nowhere, floating right behind the tiny, grass-green cat, a paw covering her still babbling mouth and an awkward smile upon his face.

 

Rogue is totally lost right now... Obviously he was the only one in this room, who hadn't been in on _something..._

And since this _something_ seemed to involve Sting, “smoochies” and an obvious obligation of secrecy concerning their Exceeds, he can't just let it slip – even less in regard to the most recent events.

“Yeah? What about Sting and kissies? I'm all ears...”

He looks at the cats expectantly, one eyebrow raised questioningly, as his eyes wander from Lector to Frosch and back; while the uncomfortable writhing both display under his gaze makes him even more impatient and nervous.

Just what the fuck was going on? Had everyone lost his mind over night?

First Sting going way over board on a comment that could have been put aside as mere meaningless banter, now the Exceeds behaving all cryptically...

He already feels a hefty headache sinking its teeth into his skull, while his body still feels foreign and somehow numb, and for a second the thought that no one, who'd been skewered with a crude, rusty iron rod mere hours ago should have to deal with this kind of shit first thing in the morning, runs through his head.

 

“Guys... listen...” he starts pleading, “It might be important right now for me to know what you mean...”

Lector's face twitches – uncertain and sympathetic – before he retorts cautiously:

“But we promised Sting not to tell... “

Rogue sighs heavily, head coming to rest in his palms, fingers threaded into his hair, and when he speaks he sounds deflated, helpless and somehow duller than they'd ever witnessed.

While the Shadow Dragon Slayer keeps on rubbing his throbbing temples with his knuckles, the Exceeds exchange a concealed gaze, uncertain what to do, whom of their friends to give priority, but then Rogue nearly sobs, as he begs:

“Please... you... you have no idea how difficult it is to talk to Sting about these things...

And I think, that, if only I could get him to be honest with me for once, at least some things might actually solve themselves.

I'm just grasping at straws here either, but can't you tell, that he's been upset, bothered by something... Not only this morning, but constantly, for more than four years now? I don't know if I can do anything about that, but we'll never know, if I don't try, so...

Whatever it is, that you're keeping from me... Just remember, it might be able to actually help Sting deal with.... whatever...”

He trails off wearily, unwilling to share his pitch-black suspicions with the Exceeds.

A heavy silence settles onto their room for a moment, as Lector scratches his chin solemnly and Frosch starts chewing on her stubby paws, before the cats throw a quick look at each other and focus on Rogue again.

“Well, you know...” Lector starts hesitantly...

“You know how Sting always wakes much earlier than you, right?”

“Right...” the dark haired boy breaths, unsure what to do with this information.

“Well, and, he's long gone, when you get up...” His tone hasn't changed, is still just as pointedly slow and gentle, almost as if conveying horrible news to a mental patient.

Rogue is already about to mutter another tuneless “Yeah...”, still uncertain, where this conversation is headed, when realization hits him like a brick...

 

“Sting is seeing someone, isn't he?” he presses out, as he feels the floor give way beneath him.

Of course... How could he ever be so blind...

Sting was absolutely gorgeous, with his blond hair like woven sunlight and his blue eyes a small patch of the wide summer-skies, so of course he'd found himself a sweet-heart somewhere in town and he only allowed the constant touches, the caring, loving embrace at night, because he needed the comfort, or because he was used to it... or perhaps because he somehow pitied his best friend, who was so very obviously in love with him...

Right at this moment his usually quick, keen mind is absolutely useless, blind and deaf with heart-ache, so he doesn't even realize the level of stupidity his train of thoughts displays.

Right now he's just a sixteen-year old boy, who loves with his whole heart and whimpers when it hurts, with no one to turn to, nowhere to run, so the crushing weight of two quivering souls bearing down onto his shoulders wears down his reason.

His heart almost shatters, when Frosch replies timidly:

“ Yes...”

 

But when he's sure, he feels tears welling up behind his stinging eyes, the little critter continues.

“Sting sees you...”

 

For a second the Shadow Dragon Slayer is taken aback by the strange answer, then Lector slaps the pink head softly, chiding:

“No, he isn't seeing Rogue... He _looks_ at him. That's how you phrase it, dummy!”

His voice seems exasperatedly and he rolls his eyes pointedly, when, upon being corrected, the other Exceed simply chimes: “Fro thinks so, too!”

 

“Alright... alright...” He adds with a sigh,

“But you never heard anything from us, because Sting made us swear, never to tell you...

You see, each morning, he wakes almost two hours before you do, but he never gets up right away...”

 

“No.” Frosch pipes in, now that she's no longer silenced, “He... he looks at you, but Rogue is always asleep... And he strokes your hair or your cheek and before he leaves, he gives you a smoochy. Like this..”. She paws clumsily at his forehead, before she nuzzles his brow again, all the while she grins happily, bouncing up and down and giggling in open joy.

Lector coughs awkwardly, before taking over. “Yeah, and when he noticed that we'd been able to see him the whole time, he made us swear, not to tell you.”

“Because kissies are for sweat-hearts and Sting didn't know, if you wanted to be his.”

 

Rogue is completely dumbstruck.

For a moment he feels, as if someone had just rammed a fist right into his face, as he can't process what he'd just heard. His brain tries to align the new information with Sting's behaviour earlier... and he fails miserably.

“I don't understand....” he whispers finally. “Why would he... No.. He should've... No way...”

His voice hardens, as he jumps to his feet, quickly grabbing a fresh change of clothes.

“That idiot owes me one hell of an explanation!”

 

 

The Guild Hall seems strangely empty that morning, only a handful of members loitering around at the bar, and neither Master Jiemma nor Minerva are anywhere to be seen, what in itself is another oddity the still young day has in store for him.

By now, he's almost convinced, that the world had gone absolutely bonkers over night and he was the last sane human being standing.

The last sane human being, and currently looking for the uncrowned king of irrationality and folly, but his searching eyes find no mop of golden hair among the small crowd.

'Outside, then...'

He sniffs in an attempt to catch the fading scent, for once actually wishing, Sting had put on this vulgar cologne, but there's no rest for the wicked, so he'd has to make do with the faint traces of pine that still cling to the morning air.

 

It takes him almost two hours to actually find the White Dragon Slayer, at a meadow outside of the town, slumped down at the foot of an enormous oak, knees drawn up to his chest, head buried in his arms and his blonde spikes in disarray and sticking out, as if he'd pulled his hair in frustration.

Rogue walks up to him slowly, his steps deliberately heavy to make his presence known, just in case Sting had once again retreated into his own little world of sadness and pain.

If his friend noticed his approach, he doesn't react on it, only curls further into himself, when the Shadow Dragon Slayer drops down beside him.

“Hey... Sting... Listen, I just wanted...” He starts hesitantly, secretly coursing his inability to find the right words, when a low, angry growl interrupts his rambling.

“Leave me alone!”

The blonde doesn't even bother looking up at him, simply gnarls, before he pointedly ignores his presence altogether.

Never, not even in the darkest hours of panic, disgust and detachment, had he ever brushed Rogue off so brusquely and the dark haired boy stares at him, as if he'd just punched his stomach, before sighing sadly.

“Sting... it was supposed to be a joke! A dumb one, I'll admit that, but there's no reason for you to get this worked up about it. I'm sorry, if I upset you somehow, I really didn't mean to... But... maybe we could be open with one another for once about a few things?”

Silence.

Not welcome and comfortable, but cold and hostile as it hangs heavily above their heads, instilling the air with a quiet static, that does not bode well.

 

Rogue already opens his mouth to continue, when Sting snaps at him once again – but this time his voice is cruel and harsh and pissed.

“Are you deaf or something? I told you to leave me the fuck alone!”

The Shadow Dragon Slayer flinches visibly, as the aggressive words hit him like the lash of a whip, before he reigns himself in.

“Hey, there's no need for you to get angry like that. I just wanted to make sure you're okay, after you rushed off like that.”

He keeps his tone forcefully light and warm, even though a sharp pang of pain had just run through his body like a slap to his face.

 

“Well, guess what? No one asked you to come running after me like a lovesick puppy! Will you please just stop fawning over me? I don't need to be pampered and I certainly don't want to be cuddled and spoiled all the time. Get lost, I don't need you right now!”

Sting tries to lay as much disdain and repulsion into his words as his shattering heart would allow, and the small, shocked gasp that he manages to draw from Rogue's lips feels like a dagger to his stomach.

But still...

He'd made up his mind.

Today would be the day, he makes short work of breaking the heart of the only person in the world he'd ever let in, the only person he'd actually loved- and it is solely because he loves Rogue so, so much, that he's decided to free his best friend from the burden he probably has become.

He has convinced himself, that someone will pick up the pieces and make him whole again, someone who'd actually deserve the affection of Rogue Cheney... and this could never be him...

 

“Well excuse me for worrying about you... It never occurred to me, that it made you this uncomfortable. It sure as hell didn't last night, when you asked me to be patient with you, while you'd snuggled up to me...”

Now there is anger in Rogue's voice and a twisted sensation of relief runs through Sting's body.

'Good...' he thinks to himself.

'Get mad at me! Yell at me, punch me if you want... That makes it easier to bear. C'mon...'

But it's not nearly enough, yet, for Rogue was a tenacious bastard when it came to those things dear to him, and it would take more than lashing out at him a few times to drive him away for good.

So he throws the next verbal punch, and this time he makes sure, he aims low and hits hard.

 

“I... snuggling up... to you? You seem to mix up some things here...” He spits.

“It's always you who's constantly clinging to me, as if we were glued to one another! You just can't keep your fucking fingers off of me, a hug here, hair-stroking there... Did it ever occur to you, that friends don't kiss each other?”

He's interrupted by a breathless, dumbstruck huff of laughter, as Rogue whispers:

“That's rich coming from you...”

But he can't allow his friend to get as much as a single word in now, has to go through with his plan... for if he'd let the other one utter even the smallest contradiction;

if he – God forbid – were to try talking some sense into him with this gentle, low and understanding voice of his, Sting is sure he would shatter beyond recognition.

So the only option he's left with is a rash, merciless, cruel attack – dead-on and right at Rogue's heart – and after that he could try to live with himself or just end it all in a flash.

Somehow he feels drawn towards plan B...

 

So he props his head up onto his arms, still slung around his knees, and stares off into the wide, lush landscape, but still refuses to spare the Shadow-Dragon-Slayer even so much as a single look.

“Whatever... You have no right to talk big here, you arrogant prick... You almost force yourself upon me time and again and then you have the audacity to assume I'd feel the same... Well, I've got news for you... I...”

He can barely suppress a wet sob, as he forces the biggest, gravest lie of his life over his lips and suddenly the resolve, that he did that only for Rogue, only to make him happy, slowly starts dwindling in his heart.

 

“I find all of this absolutely repulsive. I don't need to be babied by you, I don't need your pity or your help or anything! You always act so innocent, as if you were only trying to ease my suffering, or offering comfort... But in the end you are just glad that I am vulnerable, so you could take advantage of me, aren't you?”

His hands are shaking like crazy now, knuckles white, nails carving bloody crescent moons into his palms and the turmoil in his mind threatens to sweep him away.

If those words already managed to hurt _him_ like this, just what an immense pain were they inflicting on _Rogue_?

For a second his courage wavers, but when he glances at the other boy from the corner of his eyes, and finds him petrified, with his face contorted into a grimace of anger, he manages to continue what he'd come to call “The destruction of what I love most – A suicidal afterthought”.

'Might actually sell well, if I'd ever write it down...' He thinks offhandedly, before forcing the spite and the wrath back into his voice.

 

“How dare you look down on me like this? Do you want me small and defenceless, so that I could be all yours? Do you want to be my knight in shining armour? My only way out?

That's so fucking disgusting! Don't you ever dare touching me ever again!

Get yourself a stuffed toy or whatever. Or go find yourself a lover, if you even dare hitting on someone who isn't emotionally dependent on you...

I... I just can't do this any more... I thought you were my friend, someone I could absolutely trust and rely on... But it seems, you've been having an ulterior motive all the time...

Wow, just wow... What I've been calling my best friend for years, had been secretly manipulating me into sharing his bed...

Get the fuck out of my sight... I don't even know what to say...”

And now, that he's gone and done it, he feels nothing but empty.

 

The small flame in his chest, that he'd protected and nursed throughout the years, that had guided him through countless horribly dark nights, when he'd gagged, choked and sobbed on the grimy floor of the pit, has been doused with ice-water and now only the smoking ashes remain.

They leave a bitter taste on his lips, as the upcoming storm scatters them pitch-black and gruesomely beautiful into the darkening sky.

He can hear Rogue's heart stuttering, can almost feel the tears the other one is trying hard to bite back on his tongue, and he braces himself for the full-blown impact of anger and hatred he'll be receiving any moment now.

But when he finally speaks, Rogue's voice is toneless and flat with shock, and he almost whispers his words like a convict, in front of the gallows.

“Sting... do you mean this? Is this how you really feel?”

And damned be the incredulous softness, this open disbelieve, that shows off just how deep his trust in the blonde runs, and to hell with those traitorous tears welling up in his azure eyes again, that make him avert his gaze, as he forces his vocal cords into obedience:

“Well, I sure as hell didn't pull all that out of my ass for your entertainment!”

He falls back into a frosty, animus silence; a quiet voice at the back of his head, however, continues:

'Nope... but I did it for your future. So that at least one of us could live the life he deserves. And if I knew for sure, there was someone out there, who could bring this bright radiant smile back to your face, I could die in peace right here, right now...'

 

He still can't meet those shimmering, blood red eyes, fearing one glance at his own pain-clenched, pale, hopeless face might give him away, so he prays desperately for Rogue to leave in a huff...

But of course, issues of the soul don't solve themselves this easily.

Especially not, when your other half is a stubborn dick, too empathetic and kind for his own good.

 

Thank God, he is...

 

Because Rogue still stares at the golden crown, trying to catch a glimpse of the face so adamantly avoiding his gaze, before he feels anger rising fresh and hot in his veins, like a fire spreading throughout a barren woodland, that has his voice come low and with a sharp edge, as he grinds out:

“Say that again... If this is how you've been truly feeling, I want you to say it again... but this time to my face!

I think, I can demand at least this little token of respect... after everything we've been through...

So... if you really mean what you just said, look me in the eye and say it once more...

If you do that, I swear, I'll be gone when you come back to the guild and you won't have to see me ever again. Come on...”

A feeling of vile, despicable relief enters Sting's mind...

He'd actually managed...

He...

He had actually hurt his best friend – fuck it – the most precious, most beloved person in his life, so severely, he, too, was ready to abandon him.

He tries very hard to tell himself, that the tears suddenly running down his cheeks – tears, that he couldn't stop, no matter how hard he tried – were happy ones; every single one a token of alleviation, that he'd at least managed to free Rogue from the shackles of his own confining existence, but the way he struggles to draw breath after breath debunks his self-conceit easily.

And still, he somehow finds the strength to look up at the Shadow Dragon Slayer, has prepared himself for the ice cold hatred, the animosity, the blazing fury he awaits to find in his gaze, but what he can't protect himself from is the sad, open gentleness, the heartbroken disbelief and the deep-running disappointment, unconcealed and obvious, when they finally lock eyes.

 

Sting almost drowns in those searching pools of deepest red, while they seem to stare right through his facade, past the delicately constructed walls of self-betrayal and lies, followed by a particularly thick layer of good intent, yet, he still he finds them crumbling beneath Rogue's scrutinizing, calm eyes.

And all of a sudden he realizes, that he can't do it.

 

For there is anger, pain, frustration and incredulity in the intense gaze, but there is also a deep, unconditional love shimmering beneath the surface, so steadfast, so unwavering, even the cruel, heartless things he'd just overwhelmed Rogue with couldn't shake it.

But right now a dark veil of sadness and disappointment has fallen over those evocative, beautiful eyes and dulled their bright light, as the Shadow Dragon Slayer looks at him pleadingly, somehow trying to brace himself for the full blow of Sting's disdain.

A single tear runs down his cheek as he yells at him – hoarse, raw, and wounded.

“What are you waiting for?”

 

Then his voice dies down to a broken whisper, when he repeats his words and his whole body starts trembling.

“What are you waiting for?”

Only now does Sting realize, that he'd been staring at Rogue for minutes, unable to utter a single word, transfixed and lost in his features.

And sudden he knows, that he's at the end of his wits, can't think of any way to solve this whole fucked up situation if not by flight, for he isn't too sure, how long he can still bear the others look, scent, presence without crumbling into the dust and thus his mind tells him to get the hell away from here.

 

But then again, he is just so very tired...

He feels, that this is as far as he can go, because his heart is too heavy to keep on beating and his feet are too unsteady to carry him even a single step further, as the burden of all those lies, wounds, held back, forsaken feelings weighs him down.

So come what may, he's done with his life.

 

“I can't... “ He finally breaths in defeat, as he bows his head - almost like a prisoner awaiting the final blow.

Rogue delivers it swift and without mercy.

“I thought Weisslogia had raised you better... I'd never expected you of all people to be such a cowardly quitter. What were you thinking? Why set up this bullshit if you don't mean any of it? Why lie to me like this? Why fucking hurt me like this?”

He's openly crying now and the sight has Sting's bloodshot eyes spill as well.

“Answer me, goddammit... Because it doesn't make any fucking sense to me. You steal a kiss from me every morning, you seek my contact as much as I seek yours and then this all of a sudden?

Are you expecting me to belief any of the shit you said?

Or is this the true you and you've been fooling me for years? Answer me, Sting!! “

He can't go on, throat tight and sore with sobs and there seems to be a knife stuck between his ribs, that stabs him every time he draws a shaking breath.

 

The White Dragon Slayer feels all strength leave his body, as whatever was left of his resolve, his defences, comes crushing down and suddenly he finds himself spilling all those things, he'd sworn to never tell him.

“I... I guess I wanted to make you so angry at me you never wanted to see me again..”

 

Rogue's face falters in utter bewilderment, as he whispers; “Why? Why would you do this?”

And Sting almost chokes on his words, as he continues:

“Because I wanted you to be free. I know how much I make you worry, how often I make you sad, and you've gotten so badly hurt because of me... You nearly died back then when the maggot poisoned you... And I thought, that you were better off without a fuck-up like me in your life.”

The tense shoulders of his friend slump in exhaustion, before the anger bleeds from his features, so that only a bone-deep sadness and a heartbreaking gentleness remain.

Sting knows this expression and he is certain, he doesn't deserve to be looked at with that amount of kindness.

“You moron...” Rogue murmurs, but there is no harshness in his voice.

“I don't even know, how often I've tried to get this through to you and I'm running out of ideas how to make you understand, that this is not what I want!

Sting... non of this was your fault! Those were my decisions, and I'd make them again, if only it meant, I'd keep you by my side! And of course I worry and of course it hurts me seeing you in pain, but that's just how life is.

You cannot avoid affecting the people around you – even if you were to isolate yourself completely, there might still be someone, who'd mourn and grief because they missed your company. You always hurt those around you, but you also make them happy, it doesn't work in only one direction...”

Sting has gone back to hiding his face in the cradle of his arms, so his remark comes somewhat muffled and flat:

“But what if I hurt someone more than I do him good? What if I only ever add up all those bad things, without really making up for them? What if I simply suck the life and the happiness out of every single one around me?”

He looks so small, so fragile like this, shrunk into himself, a little ball of misery, and despite everything he'd just said, Rogue really wants to pull him into his arms and rock him like the lost child, he deep down actually is.

But he refrains from it for the time being; the situation was far from resolved, and he couldn't simply hug Sting better, not before he has come to understand some fundamental facts.

“But people evaluate pain and bliss differently... One moment of satisfaction might counterbalance a year's worth of misery, as well as one single act of violence and hurt could erase a lifetime of contentment and care. So you can only ever know, if you make someone reveal his feelings..."

He trails off quietly, waiting for any kind of reaction from the blonde, but when there seems to be none, except for the constant quivering of his shoulders, he sighs softly.

Of course he had to spell it out meticulously for the dense moron... Well, that was going to be awkward now...

“Alright... listen... as I said, of course you sometimes make me worry and seeing you suffer always hurts like a bitch, but that's nothing you'd do on purpose... On the other hand, simply having you as a friend already makes me the luckiest bastard alive...

I don't even know how to describe it, without sounding like an absolute sucker... but... take this morning for example. I woke and you were right next to me- and...I was so fucking happy to find you close like that and... Do I really have to make a complete idiot out of myself for you to finally understand?”

Rogue sighs again in exasperation, cheeks burning and heart pounding, but as it seems, Sting still won't listen to reason.

 

“I don't deserve you...” he chokes meekly.

“And you don't deserve having to put up with some one like me. Please, Rogue... just do me one single favour and forget about me... You deserve someone better. Someone less fucked up... Someone who can treat you right, who can actually offer...”

He gets interrupted by a not too gentle fist-bump to his head, before Rogue punches his shoulders – relentlessly and bruisingly hard.

“Why do you have to be like that?” He's yelling again, but the way Sting flinches, makes him regain his composure.

His voice, however, remains agitated, when he adds:

“Will you please stop saying such things? This is not your decision to make! It's mine, goddamit!

And I want you to respect that! You have no right to tell me, what I deserve or not, and I won't allow you to choose something like that for me! How dare you dictate me, what I'm worthy of and what not?”

There is anger in his demeanour and Sting seems to press himself further into the bark of the old tree, as he retorts:

“But...”

Rogue, however, won't have any of it.

He's fed up with all this insecurity, the evasiveness, the tragic-hero-stuff Sting is trying to pull on him, and he wants those things settled once and for all, and if he has to go all out for it, so be it.

“Don't you “but” me now! Dammit, I'm right here at this very moment because I want to, because you mean the world to me and I won't have it any other way!

Maybe I would be happier, had we never met, or maybe I wouldn't, that's just idle educated guessing, but in any case I wouldn't be _me_ any more, if I hadn't gone through all of this shit with you!

I would be someone else...

And even though it hurts sometimes, I am quite content with my life as it is, mostly because it has you in it. And I wouldn't exchange this for anything in the world. Now will you please finally stop this fucking crap and be honest with me just this once?”

 

Sting stares at him dumbly, silent and wide eyed as if this confession was news to him, opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, but no sound leaves his lips, so he tries again, this time actually producing a strained whisper:

“But... the things I said... I've insulted you so horribly... how could you forgive me just like that.”

The Shadow Dragon Slayer raises an eyebrow, before asking: “What ever gave you the idea I'd forgive you that easily?”

He regrets it, as soon as the blonde lowers his head in shame, so he quickly adds:

“I'll leave you off the hook if you promise, you'll do the laundry for the next three months.”

He dares to crack the tiniest of smiles, shyly offering peace; a smile that widens, when Sting whispers:

“Are you really sure, you want to be stuck with me? Because that is what will happen, when you let this chance of freedom pass.

You'll be irrevocably stuck with me and I'll be clinging to you like shit to your shoe. Just so you know! Last chance... either run now or never.”

 

And finally Rogue dares to breath a tear-choked, wet chuckle, beautifully light and shaky, as he turns to face Sting squarely, hand slowly reaching out for his face, as he states:

“I wouldn't want any other shit to ever cling to my feet again, would never clean it and wear it with pride, if it was you.”

And Sting cradles his cheek, a sparkle of mischief igniting in his still wet eyes, as he deadpans:

“That was truly beautiful!”

 

And then both break into hesitant laughter, foreheads bumping together, noses brushing, before delicate fingers start trailing over tear-stained cheeks and a familiar, quiet atmosphere befalls the pair.

Rogue draws back a little to look at Sting's eyes, before he mumbles:

“Don't you ever dare doing this to me again!”

The blonde's face falters, as he breaths a small, timid: “Sorry. I know, I'm an idiot. I simply wanted to give you a chance to be happy.”

Later on the Shadow Dragon Slayer would wonder, just where the hell the bold smoothness came from, that made him whisper suggestively:

“Then go ahead and do so...” As his fingers dance over the warm skin of the other's face.

 

A blush creeps over Sting's cheeks, as he allows the pad of his thumb to trail over Rogue's sensual bottom lip, goose-bumps wandering over his skin, when a soft sigh caresses his palm, before he mutters:

“Will you still have me?”

And Rogue answers by simply cradling Sting's face with his hands.

 

The sun-tanned hands mimic his actions, ghosting gently over his cheeks, before the blonde hooks his thumb under the others chin, cautiously tilting his head, softly coaxing him closer.

Rogue looks out for small hints of discomfort, in the sapphire-blue eyes, but when he's only met with a hooded, loving gaze, open and honest, full lips slightly parted and so, so soft, he leans in, his heart racing; his blood running hot and loud through his veins.

 

Sting watches in awe, how the clear, warm eyes mist over with a sweet, gentle longing, as they keep trailing from where they met his gaze to his lips and back, all the while he allows the corners of his mouth to curl up subtly, to give his permission.

He already senses Rogue leaning in, his breath soft and tickling on his skin, when a rough jerk suddenly runs through the other's body and his ruby eyes widen in surprise.

 

“Rogue? What's wrong?” Sting is startled by the strange reaction, but quickly becomes concerned, when the Shadow Dragon Slayer starts choking on thin air.

He's gasping for breath, panic entering his features, before a fit of forcefully wheezing coughs wrecks his form and a trickle of blood drips from the corner of his mouth.

For a moment, he seemingly tries to speak, but then the light leaves his drooping eyes and he sinks into Sting's arms; his body lifeless, limp and still.

 

Behind him, hand still raised from the attack she had just flung right between Rogue's shoulder blades, stands Minerva; teeth bared in white hot anger and murder in her eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minerva is an angry cockblock and I'm a monster.
> 
> You, my dear readers, however are awesome and I wish you all the best.
> 
> Stay safe!
> 
> TGA


	16. The path that's written in our stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dragon's cry as it calls out to his dearest; a storm surge of unbested power as it rages and floods, so that even mountains will bow their heads and the starlight will fade.  
> I find myself caught in the current of your voice, helplessly drowning and basking in bliss, as I watch our wings unfurl and the moon illuminate our path.  
> With you by my side, even eternity seems small.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there guys, sorry for taking so long to update, but it's flu-season and I spent more time at work than at home and thus was critically running low on quality-time to write.  
> By now my colleagues must think me an absolute weirdo, since I started taking my notebook with me to work, to get some writing done during my lunchbreak^^ I even tried to enlighten them about the secret art of "fanfiction", and the results were quite charming...
> 
> But I hope the the next chapter can make up for the long wait, for it is once again humongous (the longest so far) and not as angsty as the last two.  
> That's what I hope for, at least.  
> (Don't listen to my lying self, as it may lie to your face right now, leading you on without even realizing it ^^ For upon rereading I noticed that the Chapter is still angsty as fuck...)  
> For our precious boys do still have to suffer quite a bit, so we can rightfully call it:
> 
> Sting's and Rogue's never ending nightmare pt. 16.
> 
> This time also starring: Minerva, who is a bat-shit insane bitch.

A sudden cold breeze drafts over the secluded meadow, shaking the pasture and whispering a quiet tune as it gets caught in the rustling leafs fanned out above Sting's head.

The blonde still keeps Rogue's unresponsive form cradled to his chest, has curled around him protectively to shield him with his body, as he glares daggers at Minerva, yelling:

“What the hell? You fucking bitch, what did you do to him?”

Her snort cuts through the air like a bone snapping in half – aggressive, violent and hideous, when she retorts:

“Easy there, lover-boy. I merely knocked him out. He was in the way... I only have business with you!”

For a second, Sting almost breaths a small sigh of relief, then she smirks, her voice dripping with jeer and cruelty:

“Ah, but you might wanna check him over, anyway... I was aiming for his heart after all...”

 

While vivid blue eyes widen in imminent horror, gentle hands fly out quickly; one to Rogue's neck – by now Sting would find the pulse-point immediately, even in the dark and with his eyes closed – the other one to lightly cover the lips that would have been his to claim, had fate decided to actually indulge the two of them only this once.

A seemingly endless second passes, then he finds a steady, strong pulse thrumming beneath his fingers, and his palm gets warm with condensation from soft, deep breaths.

He fastens his hold around the Shadow-Dragon-Slayer for a fleeting moment, presses a firm kiss to his jet-black crown, before carefully lowering him to the ground, where he guides the limp body into the recovery position with swift, well trained motions.

Minerva is already sauntering towards him, pacing pointedly slow to accentuate the provocative swaying of her hips, simply to let him know. she didn't deem him an opponent worthy of being reckoned with even in the slightest.

 

The blonde gets to his feet quickly, but not before his fingers have brushed Rogue's cold, smooth cheek one last time with the most gentle, feather-light touch and the jacket, he'd just shed, is securely wrapped around shoulders, that seem to quiver even in unconsciousness.

Only then he manoeuvrers himself between the open threat that is Minerva and the pale, lifeless form of his friend, ready to protect him with everything that he's got.

The small trail of blood still clinging to the fair skin has a blind fury cursing through his veins, and his voice is a growl befitting of an enraged dragon.

“Have you lost your mind? You fucking lunatic, I swear to god, if you made him sustain any permanent damage, no matter how small, I will break every single bone in your skanky body!”

She doesn't even flinch, only flings a ball of buzzing, raw magic energy at him, taunting:

“You're threatening me? Did you actually find your balls somewhere deep down in Rogue's ass or did he suck your tiny brain dry? You will pay for this! And you will pay for what you did to my father!”

 

Sting evades her attack in the last moment possible by throwing himself down onto the ground, where he remains hovering right above Rogue, his arms securely shielding the raven haired head, before he calls out to her, his voice suddenly strangely calm and dangerous.

“So that's what this is about... Do you have any idea, as to why...”

“Shut up! I don't give a crap why you did that! You dared to turn against your Master; you had the insolence to humiliate the man who gave you shelter, food and a place to stay when no one else would... So I'll have to avenge that to restore the honour of my family!”

Another orb of dense, thrumming electricity comes flying right at him, and this time he can only bend down low and pull Rogue's motionless form against his chest; encircle him with his limbs, to make sure, he has him shielded safe and sound, while the attack hits his back with full force.

 

For a short moment, all colour vanishes from the world, as a sea of monotone grey threatens to overwhelm his senses, but then the warm, familiar weight in his arms anchors him to the presence, as it gives him a solid purpose to stay strong and vigilant.

“Minerva, would you...” He tries again, his tone agitated and angry now, and suddenly he almost wishes she'd just understand; would just let him explain... For he knows one or two things about her – deep, dark secrets she still considers undiscovered and buried– and an inner voice tells him, that he could talk her down, if only she was willing to listen.

However, some traumas run too deep for reason; a fact he had to learn first hand; so it doesn't really surprise him, when his words fall on deaf ears.

 

“Fuck off, loser!” The girl spits with contempt, a never known wrath in her eyes, that borders to insanity.

A string of fast, vicious attacks rains down on the White Dragon Slayer, each single one sending his muscles into spasms where ever it hits his body, and the only thing he can do is somehow fight his way through the onslaught and try to get closer towards her, his magic rushing around him in a brilliant halo as he throws a never ending string of sharp-edged, burning hot light rays at her.

He gets her good, for every time one of his swift shooting-stars of destruction even so much as brushes her skin, she hisses in pain, but still doesn't relent from throwing wave after wave of her torturous magic at him and thus repays him in the same coin.

Sting manages to counter some of the strikes, and he could have easily dodged the majority of the rest- instead, however, he rather takes the beating, as any attempt to avoid the attacks would have put Rogue in the direct line of fire, and that he cannot allow.

 

As soon as he's close enough for melee combat, a shower of blinding spears of pure, white light comes crashing down onto the girl, ripping her dress and leaving bleeding cuts in their wake.

Minerva's legs seem to give out for a moment, hands shaking, and the White Dragon Slayer allows a small silver lining to ignite in his heart, hoping beyond hope that she'd refrain from continuing the fight; that she would actually hear him out.

For a second it seems, as if the harsh, merciless and gruesomely beautiful mage had really accepted her defeat, head hanging low, limbs trembling, but when Sting himself slowly forgoes his battle stance, the corners of her mouth quirk up in a dreadful travesty of a smile.

 

Then she pounces, a true tigress charging with the intent to kill, both of her fists cloaked in the terrible swirl of chaos that is her Territory-spell, but Sting is confident, he can block her advance with the pristine, holy shine that surrounds his whole body like a gloriole of spring-sunlight, its radiance burning anything that dared to touch him to ashes.

Blinded by his own dazzling aura, he aims the White Dragon's roar at where he expects Minerva to be, only to find her right behind him all of a sudden, breaking through his barriers effortlessly and unscathed, and the next thing he knows is an excruciating pain piercing his back, just above his kidneys, like a red hot sword.

 

The scream, that rips itself from his throat his strident, raw and full of agony, causing blackness to creep over his eyes and blood to well up in his mouth, as he collapses to the ground in seizures.

He tries to curl up and shield his head, roll away, get to his feet, move in any possible way what so ever- to no avail, however, for his muscles have gone into complete lock-up, his chest tightens and his breathing becomes strained.

Cold, green eyes glare down onto his petrified form, their gaze so sharpened with hatred and wrath, it might very well cut his flesh right to the bone; while the plump, obscenely red-coloured lips contort into a predatory grin full of blood-lust and cruelty.

“You defeated my father! You humiliated him! You've ground the dignity of my family into the dust! How... how dare someone as pathetic and worthless as you even so much as lift a single finger in offence against the Master of Sabertooth?”

 

Attack after attack pummels his defenceless body as she speaks, rancour and scorn a scorching heat that has his skin blister and break, while Sting feels his windpipe being crushed by invisible hands.

He knows the feeling; remembers it well, and it brings the mouldy, vile stench of the pit with it, as well as the cold, that slowly crawled into his bones, and the bitter, rancid taste of semen, as it filled his mouth until he gagged on it.

The disgust has fiery furore running through his veins, and he struggles fiercely to get back to his feet, but with every step the young Mistress of Sabertooth takes towards his writhing form, the gravity weighing down on him increases, until it is nothing but bone-crushing and unyielding.

So when Minerva is but a few feet away, it feels as if a whole mountain was sitting right on his chest, efficiently keeping him from moving whatsoever and leaving him to helplessly watch her draw even closer, an enormous ball of black and violet plasma forming between her palms.

Her eyes glint with malice, pits of merciless, stone cold violence, and her laughter shrills over the meadow like the cry of a harpy – nothing about her seems even remotely humane any more.

The black orb in her hands thrums excitedly with every cackling, harsh sound that leaves her lips.

 

Sting recognizes the spell immediately, and he knows at once, that he is absolutely screwed, should he not manage to somehow avoid the blast.

But the earth still seems to be devouring him, what with the insane weight that presses him flat to the ground, his limbs won't obey and the pain searing through every last little nerve of his body has his head swimming, so he can only watch his demise standing almost right above his incapacitated body, a mirthless, eerily obsessed smirk playing over her features, as magic power floods into her fingertips.

The blonde is well aware that being hit with this attack would likely mean his untimely, agonizing, cruel death, for this was a spell Minerva only resorted to when missions got inexplicably dire; a forbidden spell of lost magic: “Lost Territory.”

He'd never heard of anyone that had ever been swallowed by this maelstrom of unimaginable pain and terror, and lived to tell the tale.

Even now, with a good amount of space between them, he can feel the immense gravity that weighs down on his already paralysed body, steadily compressing his ribcage and mercilessly crushing his air-ways.

In the mean time the restlessly brimming, buzzing ball of static writhing in her palm has formed some sort of portal – a portal, beyond which he can already catch a glimpse of an unfathomable dimension of pure madness, bright, blinding darkness, torture and despair.

 

As it widens gradually, an ache so severe, so complete and unforgiving traverses his body, that any conscious thought is swallowed by a white hot, visceral agony.

Sting feels a piercing, deafening cry of pain building in his throat, but what passes his lips is barely even a miserable whisper, as Minerva's magic sucks every last little bit of air from his lungs- and with the gates of hell opening right above his head, he almost faints.

 

But goddammit, only a couple of feet away from him lies Rogue, still unconscious, probably wounded and in need of his protection...

 _Rogue,_ who apparently reciprocated his love wholeheartedly and unconditional.

 _Rogue;_ who's lips had been only a hair's width from his own; heart racing just like his; breaths a warm, soft promise of gentleness and unwavering affection.

 _Rogue;_ for whom he'd take on death himself.

 

So, even though he can't escape the bonds of magic restraining him, can't stop the pressure on his windpipe from heartlessly increasing, he faces his demise with his head held stubbornly high, eyes ablaze, absolutely convinced, that he could somehow withstand Minerva's disgustingly stunning magic of death and perdition, if only his will was strong enough.

Thus he focusses on each and every little memory making up the multi-layered, vivid jig-saw image that is “Rogue” in his mind; conjures up the prominent, strong and noble features in front of his blurring eyes, together with the sensation of those ardent, careful hands - their fingertips always cold initially, but deliciously warm and nimble, after they'd caressed his skin for a couple of minutes-

And with a sigh he remembers the soft, warm breaths tickling his face, while Rogue had leaned in, his eyes brimming with love and an innocent, sweet longing.

So he swears, that as long as he hadn't kissed those pliant lips at least even once, he would claw his way out of any interdimensional shithole of horrors, just to finally feel his other half trembling beneath his mouth.

To have him close and in his arms, and.... find... those eyes, so deep... caress hands, too scarred. Strands of black, he could bury his face in... Strands of black, slowly... suffocating him...

A voice in his memory; faint and fading: “Dark, so dark...”

Just where did that come from? Where...? When...? Wait... was he actually dying?

 

His thoughts are already starting to reel and disintegrate; his mind slowly sinking into the void from an acute lack of air, as a veil of blurring nothingness descends upon his sight, drowning any reason, any conscious decision in sheer endless, crushing tidal waves of oblivion, and his valiant resolve from only moments ago; his silent oath to return to Rogue's side no matter how many planes were to part them, falls prey to the endless ocean of twilight, together with his sense of self and the last fading embers of his awareness.

For a heartbeat he tries struggling against the current, since he can still recall eyes, the colour of the most heady, velvet wine, but then the darkness claims this memory, too, and Sting lets go.

 

But before Minerva can get even one single step closer towards him or raise her hand to cast the attack, a lightning-fast ball of blackness all but throws her off her feet and flings her away from her helpless victim.

She rolls over the grass, effortlessly getting back to her feet, but another quick, barely visible hit – almost like a well-aimed chin-hook - forces her right back into the dirt and this time she actually stays down.

As soon as her spell is broken, the ground relinquishes the death grip on Sting's form and precious oxygen starts filling his lungs, having him regain consciousness in a fit of violent spluttering and hacking.

It takes a few moments for the pitch-black fog in front of his eyes to lift and the world to swim back into focus, while the ringing in his ears dies down and only then he notices, that he's still alive and right where he'd been before his brain had checked out, but where Minerva stood, looming threateningly over his struggling form, he now finds Rogue – panting, halfway doubled over, with a hand clutching his midriff, and a flickering, fierce determination in his eyes, that dared anyone to oppose him.

 

Without ever taking his gaze off the young Lady currently struggling to get to her feet with swaying, sluggish motions, he inquires:

“You okay? Can you breath freely? Any ribs broken?” and his voice is strained, but also steady, concerned and overwhelmingly protective.

Sting tries picking himself up slowly, pain and dizziness, however, cause him to stumble so hard, he'd nearly slumped right back to the ground, if it hadn't been for the strong arm suddenly slung around his waist, and the broad shoulder supporting his staggering form.

“Easy there!” Rogue murmurs, before he guides one of Sting's arms around his neck, trying his best to keep him upright, even though the sharp intake of air reveals just how much it exhausts him.

 

“'m fine!” The White Dragon Slayer wheezes, quickly checking his ribcage for fractures, but finding just the severe, eye-watering pang of a contusion. He curses under his breath, before he continues.

“Just bruised, but it hurts like a bitch... Wait...“ The blonde jerks back abruptly; eyes widening in shock, as his juggled brain stutters back into action and he realizes, that it's _Rogue_ who'd just saved his sorry ass....

 _Rogue_ , who'd been out cold mere moments ago, with his chest seriously injured for the second time within twenty-four hours and probably in unimaginable pain. So it comes as no surprise, when Sting's voice hitches with urgency and breathless worry:

“But... but what about you?! Dammit, Rogue... lay down! Now, at once! You're injured... she hit you dead on, you coughed up blood....”

A calm, low voice penetrates his incoherent rambling, the words thick with concern but free from reproach:

“So did you... Do you expect me to stay down, when you're being beaten to a pulp? Sting, do you have any idea just how close of a call this was?”

Rogue trails off with an agitated sigh, then shakes his head sadly, before adding:

“Goddammit, you would have been a goner, if I hadn't intervened... When I stepped in, your lips were turning blue and you weren't breathing for fuck's sake! You had me scared shitless!”

The rough edge of a sob has now appeared in his heated speech, and for a second Sting is at a loss for words- mostly because he understands the way Rogue must have felt for this short lived, yet never-ending second of unlimited dread oh so very well, but also because he wouldn't have thought Minerva could take him down that easily.

He very likely would have died if it hadn't been for Rogue's brave, quick, selfless actions... Actions that had put him in grave danger for his sake once again...

 

“This is all so very charming and heart-warming, I might throw up any second!”

Minerva has regained her composure, her face marred by a hideous, vicious snarls, as she flings a powerful attack right at the Dragon Slayers.

Both jump out of the way in different directions, thus safely avoiding what would have been an almost fatal hit, as the spell splits the trees in its way and scorches the grass with immense power.

“What the fuck is this about?” Rogue yells, voice quivering with anger and effort. “Have you lost your mind? You almost killed him! You've always been a crazy witch, but that takes it to a whole new level! Answer me, Minerva!”

A high-pitched giggle, icy and deadly hostile, is the only thing he gets from her, before she hisses venomously: “What? Didn't sweet-cheeks tell you? That's really something else!”

With her eyes glittering in some sort of mad anticipation she turns to Sting, taunting: “Come on, Romeo, enlighten your fuck-buddy about what you've done!”

 

Rogue's gaze seems to burn holes into his back, as he can feel those rich, intelligent eyes scrutinizing him, but the second before the Shadow Dragon Slayer gets to word his confusion aloud, the blonde has turned to him, a plead trembling on his brow, as he whispers: “I promised, I'd tell you! Please... not now! I...”

A piercing cry disrupts his silent attempt at explanation, as Minerva all but screams in apparent anguish:

“The impudent fucker almost killed our Master! He tried to curry favours with my father, even went so far as to offered up his body and then completely snapped upon being rejected! That's the kind of guy your precious Casanova is! He'd let other men bent him over the next best table or fuck him up against the wall, just so he would gain even the smallest of advantages...”

 

A white hot spear of light runs straight through her still heaving ribcage, causing her olive eyes to bulge in surprise, as her face pales and contorts in pain, but she stays on her feet, albeit unsteady and staggering.

Sting, however, doesn't fare that much better; has started trembling all over, his quaking hand already flinging the next attack at her in mindless anger, as shame and a raw, burning hatred cause tears to run down his cheeks in thick rivulets.

“You... you fucking bitch! How dare you say something like that! How can you defend that monster after everything, he'd put you...” His voice is hoarse and wounded, as he yells at her, hitching with a pathetic yelp, as she throws a shock wave of energy back at him in a state of furious revenge.

 

“Silence!” she grinds out upon regaining her balance, her gaze quivering in something akin to dread.

“I have no idea what you're talking about! Be gone! Both of you!”

What started as a vicious snarl, quickly grows to a full-blown outcry of insanity, as an onslaught of humming, malevolent magic is sent at the boys, and while the White Dragon Slayer manages to dodge the ridiculously fast, comet-like balls of pain, Rogue's still impaired range of motion gets him caught up in the brunt of the attack.

For a second his body goes rigid, frozen in place as his muscles seize up in agony, then the overwhelming power sends him crumbling to the ground.

He doesn't stay down for long, however, is already struggling to get back up, even before the fierce shower is over, all the while fighting adamantly against the blackness that starts to rapidly narrow down his vision.

For a moment all sounds appear dull and muffled, as if his ears were stuffed with cotton, then Sting's voice tunes in, hysteric and unstable, as he pleads: “Stay back, Rogue! I'm begging you! Don't push yourself any further! She'll kill you!”

 

The White Dragon Slayer is worried almost senseless, as he finds his friend swaying dangerously on his feet, thus he tries again to make him lay low and retreat from the fight, although he already knows the answer.

And sure enough, Rogue doesn't budge; stubborn and headstrong as a mule...

“And what about you, huh?” He retorts breathlessly, as he jumps out of the way of an especially nasty lance of violet lightning. “You can't defeat her on your own! Please, Sting, let me help! We could pull this off, together! But you gotta let me help, at least this once!”

The blonde knows he's right, of course he does, he isn't that dense, thank you very much... there was no chance in the world, that he could defeat Minerva on his own, probably not even in Dragon Force, and his magic is still replenishing after the all-out battle against Jiemma last night, and every single bone in his body hurts and aches like hell.

Rogue isn't faring any better, either, had lost a lot of blood the previous evening, while his chest was probably slowly killing him; what with the way he keeps curling around the arm constantly pressed against his sternum, and Sting could never forgive himself, if his best friend was to sustain a lingering damage or worse.

 

But then again, wasn't this exactly what they had argued about earlier? Wasn't this exactly what Rogue had been trying so desperately to make him understand?

That it was okay for him to accept a helping hand every now and then; that he didn't have to shoulder everything on his own?

That, in refusing the offered support, he didn't shield the other from harm, but rather hurt him worse than physical damage would?

 

Maybe it was time to actually let Rogue in...

To take the hand so willingly reaching out for him; to finally acknowledge his friend as what he truly was.

His partner, his missing half and the one thing in this world that completed him.

So if Rogue wanted to aid, then he should allow it.

The only thing Sting had to make sure, was that he himself fought with everything that he'd got in order to honour his friend and keep him safe...

So, even though it costs him an enormous amount of effort, he squeezes his eyes shut for a short-lived moment, asking: “Are you sure, you'll be okay, Rogue? It won't be too much of a strain for you wounds?”

The Shadow Dragon Slayer stares at him in open surprise, muttering: “Of course! I'll manage. And I trust you to have my back!”

Sting swallows heavily, as he whispers tonelessly: “Always...”

Then fondness seeps into his words, as he adds a soft: “Thanks for lending a hand! Please take care!”

 

The smile that blooms on Rogue's lips is like a sunrise after days of rain - brilliant, comforting and full of a gentle warmth as it sets his eyes aglow like embers.

A wild, exhilarating buzzing runs through Sting's veins at the sight, and it has his heart thrumming, blood rushing and stomach fluttering with pride, gratefulness, faith and an unyielding desire to protect.

 

All of a sudden the invisible clockwork of fortune revolving right above their heads seems to stall dead in its tracks, before something clicks into place almost palpably, causing a jolt of energy to run through the fabric of the world around them.

For a second Sting wonders, if he'd only imagined the spontaneous outburst of power, but then he finds a small orb of pure, humming light bouncing exuberantly in his palm, pulling at him with a relentless force that makes it appear almost alive.

The energy seems to have a mind of its own, for it keeps constantly ushering him into a certain direction and it is only when he looks up, that he understands.

 

As soon as his eyes find a similar ball of pitch-black shadows swirling in Rogue's outstretched hand, it feels as if both were controlled by another entity, pushing them towards one another with irresistible vehemence.

The oppositional cores of magic call out to their counterpart and while their owners listen in awe, they come to understand a truth so great it shakes their very souls and yet so simple, they wonder why they didn't notice it sooner.

So when the initially small orbs of power start swirling around each other, either growing larger than lifetime but still completely balanced now that they fulfil one another, a sense of completion spreads throughout both boys and they realize, that this was, what fate had in store for them all along, and now, what had always been growing and blooming in their hearts is coming full-circle.

Both Sting and Rogue push every last little ounce of commitment, sorrow, longing and care into the flaring aura of magic around them, nurturing the still growing force with all those pent up feelings, they never dared to confess; but now that their hearts are stripped bare in front of each other, everything seems so, so simple and nothing but overwhelmingly right.

 

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Minerva screeches, as the spheres of buzzing magic energy threaten to swallow up the whole clearing, humming and throbbing, completely in sync with the pulse of the Dragon Slayers and only when their heartbeats come as one, do they shrink rapidly to the size of a pinhead, allowing shaking fingertips to brush against each other.

Both boys feel the raging power thrumming though their veins, as a never-known feeling of completion fills them to the brim; a sensation that climaxes when their hands find one another.

For a second their eyes meet, a silent dialogue that seems to last a century, before Sting nods and Rogue smiles softly, and they release the spell in a cataclysm of brightest, dazzling black.

A storm of thunderous, raging might springs from their joined hands - an unstoppable force of nature, the full power of a dragon that has found equilibrium and a sheer endless well of strength, and it hits Minerva dead on, flinging her into the dirt as if the almost impenetrable shield she's conjured was mere child's play.

Her high-pitched yell pierces the roaring of magic for a moment, then her voice is swallowed up by the beautiful chaos and her struggling form lies still, as she admits defeat.

 

The wild torrent keeps on surging around the two boys – hands still touching, their figures proud, unmoving and surreal like statues from another realm – then it slowly dies down, leaving a realization etched into the marrow of their bones, that from now one will forever become one of the basic laws of their universe:

With the other one by his side, either of them was not only whole and at ease, but also unstoppable...

 

It takes a minute or two for the deafening, booming after-image of violence to fade into the timid rustling of leafs, all the while both Dragon Slayers don't even dare to move a single muscle; both still caught in their own bubble of light and darkness, with their hearts and minds still connected; and it is only with reluctance, that the deep-running bond relinquishes its hold on their bodies.

When it finally does, Sting's legs give out and he crumbles to the ground, as silent, uninvited tears start streaming down his face.

Rogue, however, stumbles over to Minerva's beaten figure; and even though exhaustion causes his shoulders to sag and his steps to stagger, there is an unforgiving hardness in his demeanour, a spark of merciless, cruel thirst for revenge in his eyes, that has him appear almost like an avenging saint.

 

The dark-haired girl, however, doesn't even try to shield herself any longer, doesn't scramble away or talk her way out of it; instead simply cowers down and buries her face in her hands, her shoulder trembling traitorously, as she hands herself over to Rogue's utter will and command; the once undefeated, gruesomely proud form now reduced to a pathetic heap made of small whimpers, sobs and quivering limbs.

The Shadow Dragon Slayer doesn't even know, why exactly this very sight of weakness has his blood run hot; maybe it was because she had always spited them for being soft, disgraceful wimps, or because she's never once given a crap about _their_ pain, _their_ tears – but as he looks at her now; so negligible and insignificant, he can't seem to fathom how this very woman could have caused both of them that much anguish throughout the years.

Without thinking, he has already raised his hand, ready to attack once again, to take out all those hours of humiliation, taunt and torture she'd ever inflicted on either of them, on her flesh, when Sting suddenly catches his wrist and restrains his motion.

“Don't...” he whispers softly, allowing his fingers to trail over Rogue's hand, before he releases it and steps past him, towards Minerva.

 

She still doesn't acknowledge either of their presences, just keeps her head bowed; long black strands hiding her face, as if she was awaiting the fatal blow from the executioner.

Sting, however, only sighs sadly; a strangely unfitting kindness in his eyes, as he speaks up:

“Minerva... When will you finally realize, that we are not your enemy?”

“Shut.... Shut the fuck up, you damn sucker...” She grinds out between sobs, but try what she might, the contempt and the hatred just won't come any more.

The blonde continues unperturbed, a sharp, taunting edge suddenly appearing in his words:

“What were you even trying to accomplish attacking us like that? Did you honestly think, Master would start treating you like the beloved daughter you so very obviously aren't? Are you kidding me?”

He nearly spats with disgust.

“He'd probably only pummel you into a pulp because we managed to defeat you.... Or were you hoping, he'd desist from dragging you out to the woods almost every other nig...”

All of a sudden Minerva's head snaps up, her dark eyes on fire, as she hisses

“I have no idea, what you're talking about!” But Sting simply laughs her off.

“Sure, you keep telling yourself that. But who knows, maybe I'm mistaken... Maybe your midnight-strolls in the forest are nothing but good old father-daughter-quality-time...”

The chuckle he lets out is so cold, mirthless and aggressive, it sends goosebumps up and down Rogue's spine, but before he can even intervene, the White Dragon Slayer is already continuing; a sinister smile worming its way into his speech.

“But then again, you might even call it that, couldn't you... At least if you had a sense of humour this macabre...”

He completely ignores Minerva's gaze freezing in utter terror, lips quivering and unable to speak, as a thin veil of tears starts to mist her cheeks.

 

However, when he speaks up again, his voice has gone soft and quiet.

“Did you think I didn't know the stench that clings to you, every time you return; your clothes torn and your body bruised? I know it far too well... and maybe you'll understand now or maybe you won't...”

And at that point her face falters in open horror, as she stares at him in disbelieve, shame, pain and too many expressions to discern, but before she can even open her mouth, Sting is already turning away,

muttering a toneless:

“We are not your enemy...”, as he walks back to Rogue, who's knee's had buckled beneath his weight, and extends a patient hand to help him up, asking softly:

“Shall we go home?” His tone achingly gentle and affectionate.

 

The Shadow Dragon Slayer can only nod, throat tightening in fear upon what he'd just witnessed, and he's already thinking about a way how to ask about what has been made painfully obvious now, when Sting looks at him pleadingly, a flicker of fear and pain flashing in his gaze, as he breaths: “I'm tired...”

And Rogue understands; complies with a small sigh, as he falls into step next to him and they start heading for the Guild Hall in silence.

 

Their way home isn't as awkward as they might have imagined – the quiet air between them welcome and mellow- but there is still a certain undercurrent; a buzzing attraction, neither knows if and how to act on.

As they walk with slow, sluggish steps, their hands keep on brushing ever so often and each time a small jolt seems to run throughout their nerves, until it gets too hard to bear and upon the third time it happens, Sting simply laces their fingers together.

As always, Rogue's hands prove to be somewhat cold and hesitant, so he busies himself with carefully easing some life back into the digits; caressing the calloused knuckles and trailing over the sensitive skin at the nimble fingertips.

They only break apart, when they're almost at the Guild's threshold, but even then does he catch the retreating wrist once again and place a gentle kiss to the now warmed palm.

And if he noticed Rogue blushing a brilliant crimson, he doesn't comment on it...

 

Back inside, however, an unknown aura of stiffness befalls them, as neither is all too certain where exactly they're standing right now, the boundaries of what was allowed and what was only sweet wishful thinking coming crashing down rapidly, as both feel their relationship shifting, yet unsure what to make of it.

But as they head for their room with hesitant, slow steps, things sort themselves out on their own for once...

Because when Sting pushes the door to their room open, Rogue suddenly stumbles over the doorstep – nothing serious, just a small misstep and he'd already regained his balance, as the White Dragon Slayer wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him back with that much neediness, that the dark haired boy ends up pressed flush against his chest.

Normally they'd break apart now, probably stammering some kind of pathetic apology, but in this very moment, both stay exactly where they are.

Rogue with his knees suddenly weak and wobbly, encircled by a strong arm that keeps him cradled against a broad chest, Sting completely taken aback by finding his friend this close out of the blue; uncommon shyness and doubts having him hesitate; until their eyes meet and everything becomes beautifully inevitable.

 

Pale fingers come to caress a suntanned cheek, while a trembling thumb trails over soft lips once again, already expecting another calamity to destroy the secluded moment of discovery, but when Sting eases his other arm around the Shadow Dragon Slayer and leans in, nothing interrupts, and after what feels like an eternity of slowly closing the distance, their lips actually find each other.

For a second either freezes at the contact, before they breath a short nervous chuckle and the first shy touch slowly melts into a soft, chaste kiss.

There is no awkward collision of noses, no clicking of teeth; just like their bodies, their mouths, too, seem to fit against each other effortlessly.

Ever so cautiously Rogue starts moving his lips against Sting's; probing, testing and a shudder runs down his spine when the blonde responds with equally tender motions.

A soft sigh, that could have come from either of them, reverberates through the almost nonexistent space between their bodies, when the tip of a nimble tongue trails softly over Rogue's bottom lip; causing him to absolutely lose control.

He'd kept himself restrained by a tight leash, trying to let Sting take the lead, but he is still but a sixteen-year old boy who can do only so much about raging, juvenile hormones, and feeling his love so close, nibbling at his lips with the quietest of moans, makes him deepen the kiss hungrily.

Searching for a more intimate connection he backs Sting up against the wall, presses himself closer, and the way the other boy is suddenly grinding against him, hands clawing at his chest almost robs his mind.

That is, until those hands start pushing... as in pushing him away, while the White Dragon Slayer is suddenly throwing his head to the side with a rough, almost sobbing pant, and Rogue realizes with a shock, that he wasn't grinding, but struggling against him... He jerks back, as if he'd been burned and seeing Sting shiver uncontrollably, has his heart shatter with a pang of guilt.

“Oh god... I'm sorry... Sting... I'm... I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to...” he stammers, but it appears, as if the blonde doesn't even listen, as he sinks down onto their nearby bed and curls up, still trembling,

His lips keep on moving in a voiceless whisper, and when Rogue finally makes out the words, ice cold dread seeps through his guts, as he finds every last lingering doubts about Jiemma's assaults eradicated.

 

“It's okay, it's not him.”

Uttered over and over again, until the four words seem to have carved themselves right into his mind, and Sting still won't stop, his breathing already becoming laboured, muscles starting to lock up, as he shakes, and shakes and shakes.

Shellshocked and ghostly pale, his throat tight and dry, Rogue wants to offer comfort, but since he was the one triggering the attack, he isn't all too sure, if his friend would even want him close right now.

But then hollow blue eyes turn to him, pleadingly, haunted and so, so scared, as the blonde whispers:

“I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, please don't go... I... I really need you right now...”, so the Shadow Dragon Slayer drops down on the mattress next to him, mindful of leaving a safe amount of space between them, before he finally asks the one question he'd dreaded for years and now that he's gone and done it, his words hang heavily in the air, like a dagger suspended by the most worn out of threads:

“This is what happens in the pit, isn't it?”

Sting chokes miserably and averts his gaze.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and leaving comments, kudos or any kind of criticism!  
> You, my dearest readers are absolutely amazing and I wish you all the best.
> 
> Please take care and be safe!
> 
> Dearest greetings,  
> TGA


	17. Here's to the broken, Here's to the light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've picked up all those scattered pieces of my fading self and tried putting them back together; alas they won't fit, as I seem to have forgotten how I've looked when I'd been whole.  
> But you simply laughed and rearranged them here and there, before you added some parts from your heart, to fill in the gaps.  
> And I still feel unstable, still fear I'll just fall apart, yet there's a pulse where emptiness used to swirl and it beats warm and lifely, whenever I see you smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, guys, and welcome back to...  
> The very first Chapter that could almost be counted as fluff (?).  
> In this fiction? It's more likely, than you think. But of course there's still enough angst, for Sting finally spills the beans, however, there is even some sexual tension and... arghg, just go read for yourselves, otherwise I might spoil the whole thing.  
> Short trigger warning: referrences to non-con elements

The suffocating silence crushes down on Rogue's eardrums, as he waits for Sting to finally find his voice, his mind racing a thousand miles per second, trying to come up with something... _anything_... to say.

But try as he might, the words just refuse to come, and he's already mentally kicking himself for never having thought about how to handle the situation, should his darkest suspicions ever proof to be real.

He looks his friend over with grief-stricken, compassionate eyes, takes in every tremor running through his form, each ragged, unsteady breath and whispers a helpless, small:

“I'm so sorry...”

Knowing fully well it wouldn't do any good, yet unable to stop himself.

Sting only shakes his head, before releasing a stuttering sob:

“Not your fault...” as he still refuses to even look at Rogue, eyes glued to the wall, his quivering back turned towards the Shadow-Dragon-Slayer.

The dark haired boy clenches his eyes shut, perplexity and despair a heavy burden weighing almost palpably on his shoulders, while he braces himself for the inevitable.

“Do you wanna... no... can you tell me what the sick fucker does to you?”

He asks, his voice soft, low and so very heartbroken, one could almost feel the sharp edges of the shards the last little bit of hope in his heart has shattered into.

Sting, however, just withdraws further into himself, spitting: “I guess you can figure this out on your own... Please don't make me recount the details.”

And though Rogue really doesn't want to pry, doesn't want to hurt him even further, the bottomless pit of pitch-black fear that had open where his stomach used to be, more or less forces him to ask this one question that has him feeling faint with dread.

With his throat tightening and the blood rushing in his ears, it comes as no surprise, that his words are barely more than a strained, quaking whisper:

“Did he... did he ever ra-”

Sting cuts him off quickly, his voice equally unsteady and rough with tears:

“No!”

And for a moment Rogue isn't too sure, if the White Dragon Slayer was ordering him to stop asking or if he'd actually negated the question, but then he continues, with less urgency, but just as much pain in his speech:

“No, he never actually did _that..._ But he's done pretty much anything else...” those last words are uttered so quietly, mumbled into the muffling safety of the pillow, as Sting hides his face and the shaking of his body increases.

The Shadow Dragon Slayer had expected to feel relieved, hearing that at the very least Jiemma hadn't overstepped this final line, but somehow it occurs to him now, that the damage done was probably just as bad, for he's sure, that in Sting's mind the disgusting bastard had violated him over and over, time and again.

 

“But I couldn't have done anything about it, if he'd gone for it...” the blonde suddenly states, his tone flat and devoid of life.

“Can you see it now? How pathetic of a fuck-up I am? I never even tried to defend myself... I just let it happen... I let it happen the first time and the thirty-eighth as well... Do you believe me now, when I tell you, that I'm too much of a looser to ever deserve you?”

The tiny, choked sob, as he trails off miserably, stabs Rogue almost physically, and before he could even consider his actions, he'd already reached out to stroke the golden strands softly, allowing his hand to trail lower, rubbing slow calming circles over Sting's back and shoulders.

Only when he finds his friend sniffling quietly, does he notice, the other didn't flinch or shy away, and he counts that as a tiny success, as he lays down carefully, leaving a safe amount of space between them, albeit never breaking contact.

“Sting, you were but a kid when this started. What could you possibly hope to achieve against someone like the Master? You were but a kid and he was a Monster... You're not at fault here! How could you? This fucker abused you and I'll be damned if he didn't somehow threaten you to stay in line.

I'll tell you once more: You are not pathetic! You endured all that for so, so long... You carried that burden all on your own for years and you didn't allow it to break you... I don't know, if I had that kind strength... to just keep going.

The simple fact, that you're still here with me shows what a damn fighter you are... And it must have taken an enormous amount of courage to tell me. So, no matter what this asshole said, you're far stronger, than you give yourself credit for.”

 

Ever so slowly the blonde inches backwards, as Rogue speaks, drawn in by the warmth radiating off of the Shadow Dragon Slayer, until his back is pressed flush against the firm chest and he takes a staggering wet breath. “Yeah, right... The only thing that kept me going was your constant support! You dragged me through all of this, and I must have been nothing but a burden to you, a burden that even now can't fulfil at least the most simple of your desires, although I actually want to...”

The raven haired boy debates for the longest moment, if it was save for him to pull the blonde into his arms, but before he could make up his mind, his friend had already huffed in frustration and turned around rashly, so that they finally lie face to face.

“Just great...” Sting suddenly hisses, his tone exasperated and almost angry “And now I've ruined the mood for good. I'm sorry for freaking out, it had nothing to do with you, can we just try again and...”

He obviously searches for words, but Rogue finishes for him incredulously and more than a bit sarcastic:

“Get this over with? No way. We'll do no such thing.”

 

Something darkens in the still bloodshot, sapphire eyes – something akin to bereavement, as well as resignation and defeat – and he draws back from the hand still hovering hesitantly somewhere above his waist, mumbling icily:

“Of course... how stupid of me... Of course you'd find me disgusting... I wouldn't wanna touch me either, if I were you. Can't blame ya... you're right... No matter how often I wash my body, I bet you can still smell him... Sorry... “

The blonde is already sitting up, when Rogue catches his wrist and pulls him back down, this time throwing caution to the wind and easing his arms around the quivering form, as he cradles him against his chest. Sting stiffens for a second, then exhales forcefully as his body relaxes, and he timidly nuzzles the crook of the other's neck.

“That's not it, dammit!” The Shadow Mage retorts agitatedly. “You could never disgust me, you idiot... Or does this look like repulsion to you?” He adds, as his hands start threading through blond spikes and rubbing gentle, ceaseless circles all over the taut muscles that make up the trembling back.

“No, what I meant was, that we're not going to do anything just to “get it over with...” or because you think that we're somehow obliged to now...

That's not how those things work. You don't kiss someone because you “have to”... That's something you do, because you want to, because you wanna feel that certain someone close to you... And I'm not gonna make the same mistake twice... I won't rush things, for if there is one thing that we actually have plenty of, it's time.”

Rogue's voice softens as he speaks and his fingers wander slowly from the unruly strands of gold down to tear-stained cheeks, asking: “Is this okay?”

He waits patiently for Sting to nod, before his knuckles trail over the smooth skin with a feather-light, cautious touch – a touch the other boy all but melts into, as he closes is eyes and mumbles:

“I really wanted to kiss you, but until now kisses were the most disgusting thing ever and I even though it was nothing like _him_ I had some kind of flash black. I'm sorry. I know you'd never hurt me, but sometimes those irrational panic just gets triggered. I'm really sorry for fucking up...”

“Shh, it's fine... you don't have to apologize or anything. You're in control here... I won't do anything you don't give your direct consent to and if something makes you uncomfortable, you just have say so.”

The other's reply is so small, so incredulous and overwhelmed in the face of all the unconditional acceptance he finds himself regarded with, that Rogue almost misses it, and the words hit him like a fist to the stomach.

“But what about you? It really won't sicken you? I mean after all Jiem-”

 

For a moment he feels like falling from a very tall building, before he presses a finger to Sting's lips and hushes him, whispering hoarsely:

“No... gods no... you gotta believe me.”

But the White Dragon Slayer still looks at him with doubt and fear swirling in his wide, silently pleading eyes, so that he simply opts for driving his point home without words.

He senses Sting's pulse picking up speed, as he leans in and the way, the azure eyes are suddenly squeezed shut could almost be called adorable, if the expression wasn't so very tight, it resembled a harp-string ready to snap any moment. And yet, the blonde tilts his head up, lips parted expectantly, as the pad of a careful thumb caresses his cheekbone.

Rogue, however, isn't in a hurry to get to the soft mouth; rather nuzzles Sting's temple with a barely noticeable touch.

 

His breaths trail ticklingly warm over the tanned skin, and in the next moment the tip of his nose starts brushing gently along the invisible path they'd created; slowly, ardently, and when a choke rises in the White Dragon Slayer's throat, he whispers against his eyebrow:

“Shh... shh... it's fine... You okay with this?”

When the other one gives a shaky nod, he nuzzles his temple again, allowing his lips to ghost loosely over the same spot, his motions achingly sweet and cautious, as he waits for the undercurrent of quivering to subside. Then, and only then does he press a soft kiss to the scar right above his eye.

 

He continues exploring Sting's face in the same pattern, always indicating where his lips would fall by gently nudging the spot with his nose, to give the blonde the opportunity to refuse the touch, but by the time his kisses had covered forehead and temples, the tense form has turned to mush under the caress.

So he allows it easily to be guided onto his back, and while Rogue places butterfly kisses onto both of his fluttering eyelids, he carefully straddles his hips, mindful to keep his weight shifted to arms and knees, as to not restrain the trembling boy beneath him.

Then he returns to mapping out the familiar features with his lips, creating a new image of Sting in his mind, as even the smallest welts and dents engrave themselves into his memory forever.

Quiet, innocent touches roam over flushed cheeks, trail along the prominent jawbones and tease the cold tip of his nose with endless patience and affection, and the longer Rogue's breath wafts over the sensitive skin like a warm summer breeze, the longer the pliant, gentle lips linger on each and every spot of his face, the more the memory of Jiemma's tongue fades, giving way to a feeling of complete and utter contentment and safety, while pleasure starts to build somewhere deep down in his guts, causing him to sigh in bliss.

And when the Shadow Dragon Slayer presses small pecks to both corners of his mouth, Sting tangles his fingers into the dark strands tickling his skin and pulls the other one in, suddenly craving the feeling of another body pressed flush against himself, while he arches his back up and slings one arm around Rogue's waist, in an attempt to guide the hovering figure down.

The dark haired boy complies hesitantly, his scrutinizing gaze finding Sting's as he asks quietly:

“You sure this is alright?”

But the White Dragon Slayer simply captures his lips and wraps his arms around his back, as he coaxes him into laying on his broad chest.

For a second, Rogue smiles softly against the swollen, red lips, muttering a breathless, awestruck:

“You have no idea how long I've been wanting to do that...” before he flips them over, allowing Sting to be on top, to give him space and the feeling of being in control.

The blonde freezes for a second, then dives back in, as he slowly eases their mouths open and their tongues start brushing timidly against one another.

They stay like that for the longest time – exchanging gentle, loving kisses – when Rogue suddenly feels tears streaming down the smooth, faintly blushing cheeks and they leave a bitter taste on his lips, as they run past Sting's chin.

He breaks the kiss, but this time doesn't jerk away, simply draws back a little, to witness a steady trickle of hot, painful drops falling from closed eyes, that carve salty trails into the drawn features.

With his guts clenching agonizingly, he watches the beloved face, takes in each and every sniffle, before he whispers quietly: “Hey... hush... what's wrong? You're safe... I won't hurt you.”

Sting, however, only nods shakingly, as he chokes out: “ I know... It's just... I never knew a kiss could feel like this....”

The answer comes prompt, quiet and disbelievingly: 

“But this is what it's supposed to feel like...” and all of a sudden Sting comes undone, his form wrecked by harsh shivers and violent sobs, as he lets himself crumble into Rogue's arms and huddles up against him in pursuit of closeness and comfort so willingly shared.

 

Before he even knows it, he has already been pulled in, sprawled on top of the Shadow Mage's steadily rising and falling chest, a pair of strong arms wrapped around his shivering form, and, as if invisible chains have fallen away, he finds himself crying uncontrollably, while gentle, patient hands trail over his back and keep him cradled against the sturdy, trusty shoulder, that had born silent witness to so many outbursts of anguish he'd lost count years ago.

But Rogue never even once complains, only takes in the onslaught of pain as usually and holds him tight, curls around him like a blanket, trying to shield him from all the demons in his mind.

So, now, with his head buried in the crook of the other's neck and his body encircled by limbs ready to protect him from any threat whatsoever, he finds himself able to finally let go. To tear down the walls of silence and confess his darkest secrets and his gravest sins.

“He'd always clutch my throat and press me up against the wall... and then he'd shove his tongue into my mouth and...”

He can't go on, tremors stealing his breath and sobs constricting his throat, and the only thing that keeps him grounded, gradually pulls him back from the brink of despair, is the sensation of warm fingers threading through his hair.

Rogue starts rocking him slowly, whispering low words of comfort against his crown: “Hey, you don't have to talk about that, if you don't want to...” and he feels Sting nodding weakly, as he rides out the tremors and convulsions, before he actually manages to speak again.

“Yeah, I know, but I need you to know what you're getting yourself into... please don't go...”

So his best friend presses a firm kiss against his forehead, soothing: “It's okay, just remember that it's over. You're safe. I've got you and I'm not going anywhere.”

And thus Sting chokes out all those things kept under lock and behind bars for so, so long; sobs them into Rogue's chest together with countless miserable pleads, not to abandon him, now that he'd laid himself bare, but the Shadow Dragon Slayer only tightens his hold, reassuring him again and again, that he wasn't going to leave him come what may, so that after what feels like hours of painful weeping, his breathing actually evens out and the shivers subside.

 

“Better?” Rogue inquires, when the body in his arms finally goes lax and pliant, only to feel a kiss being pressed against his collarbone – the sensation wet and hot from tears – and a quiet, hesitant whisper reaches his ears; “Yeah... Sorry for-”

But before Sting can even start a new round of apologies uncalled for and unnecessary, Rogue has already sealed his lips with a tender motion, as his hands come to cradle tear-stained, unusually pale cheeks.

“No. Stop this. No more apologies – it's fine, you hear me? You've done nothing wrong, so stop blaming yourself.” Then he adds a low, hesitant: “Thanks for finally letting me in. And I swear to god should that bastard ever try to drag you down there again, I'mma kill him, simple as that. I should have done this years ago...”

But to his surprise Sting rubs his head against his jaw, nuzzles against his neck as he breaths a ragged, sobbing chuckle:

“Thanks but no thanks. I think I took care of that, and I made myself perfectly clear last night. If the sick old fucker got the message, he won't lay a hand on either of us again. If not I'll have to spell it out more meticulous for him...”

“So Minerva was actually right?” Rogue asks completely incredulous, but with awe in his voice. “You seriously took Master on?”

“Yeah... last night, I got so fucking angry, because the bastard had injured you so badly, and then he kept on taunting me, so I kinda snapped and somehow I managed to invoke Dragon Force... caught him off guard and sucker-punched him good. In the end it was such a disgustingly pathetic sight, I had to restrain myself not to put an end to his sorry existence there and then.”

A cruelty has suddenly appeared in his voice that cuts the still atmosphere like a knife, but when the blonde looks up to meet wide, questioning red eyes, his gaze is soft and hooded; the last bitter tear-drops still clinging to the long lashes catching a straying ray of the afternoon-sun and the way the light scatters all over his face suddenly reminds Rogue of a quiet morning between warm sheets, a morning years ago. Yet it is only now that he realizes, how from this very moment on, he had helplessly and irrevocably fallen for Sting, and everything started with a sudden trail of thoughts crossing his mind like a shooting star.

So now, that things have come full circle, voicing his findings aloud, seems like the only right thing to do, thus he reaches for Sting's chin, tilts his head up and presses another affectionate kiss to his lips, murmuring: “And you keep calling yourself weak?! You're unbelievable... You're amazing. And you're beautiful.”

The White Dragon Slayer freezes under his touch for a second, then scoots a little higher to start trailing open-mouthed kisses all over Rogue's neck and jawline, nibbling at his earlobe and nuzzling into the hollow of his throat, delighted to feel the vibrations of a quiet moan rumbling beneath his touch.

Within seconds the dark haired boy is reduced to a bundle of shaky limbs and catching breaths, his cheeks flushed and neck craned to give Sting a better access, trying his hardest to keep his touches light and non-restraining, but failing miserably, when a hot tongue starts tickling the soft spot behind his ear.

The blonde, however, meets him halfway, allows to be pulled in and when their lips find each other, his mouth is just as hungry and eager as Rogue's.

With longing coursing hot through his veins and pleasure pooling low in his belly, the White Dragon Slayer brings their hips together, a not unfamiliar tightness in his pants, and his breath hitches, as he feels a promising hardness beneath him, while a whimper leaving parted, panting lips, tells him that the other must have felt the sudden spark of pure bliss as well.

 

Letting need and instinct guide him, he once again starts grinding against the lap now arched back into his groin, this time unable to suppress the harsh exhale of excitement, while his hands slide beneath Rogue's shirt to trail languid, warm touches all over his stomach, waist and chest.

He'd never guessed, that touching someone and being touched in return could ignite this kind of fulfilment, lust and ecstasy inside his being, but finding the one he loves quivering under his hands, eyes closed, head thrown back and lips so enticingly flushed, as he gasps and pants, does some strange things to his mind and body.

But then he remembers, how a rough groin used to grind against his struggling, trapped and helpless form and suddenly Sting is more than relieved, when Rogue catches his now petrified hands and shifts, until they're laying side by side, while he tries hard to calm his fleeting breath.

“Maybe we shouldn't do this... I mean, not right now. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't want to, but as I said, there's no need to rush things... Plus we're both pretty roughed up at the moment... So let's wait at least until your bruises are healed up, okay?”

The blonde looks at him with unconcealed love and gratefulness in his eyes, as he presses a chaste, sweet kiss to the bridge of his nose, before he bumps their foreheads together, as touch so familiar, so nostalgic, but now, with their bodies curled flush against one another, also new and somehow exhilarating, and his words ghost gently over the pale, cool skin: “Yeah, you're right. But let me have a look at your chest, anyways!”

 

“My, aren't we eager?” Rogue teases, what earns him a playful fist to his head, before the White Dragon Slayer huffs: “Moron! I just wanna have a look at your wound... Minerva got you good after all...”

So he helps the Shadow Dragon Slayer out of his shirt, noticing the strained motions and the hiss of pain with a sudden pang of guilt, but to his surprise there's no visible damage besides the sore, ragged scar where the iron rod had pierced his flesh the previous night.

He blows on the rough patch of skin, almost like a mother would, and when Rogue lets out a small, voiceless chuckle, he brushes his lips over the injury tenderly, drawing a barely audible sigh from the other's throat.

 

His hands start roaming loosely over the bare skin, trailing from chest to back, quietly marveling at the sculptured, well-toned muscles and the immaculate, milk white skin that is now theirs to discover, until suddenly a low, strangled outcry of pain tells him, he's found the wound he's been expecting.

And sure enough, right between Rogue's shoulder blades blooms a star-shaped, pitch-black bruise, that causes the dark haired boy to flinch as soon as Sting's fingers even get close. How he didn't upset this dire contusion in the course of their make-out-session will always remain a mystery to him, but now that he's seen it, he can't ignore it any second longer. Even less so as it appears, that his accidental touch had aggravated the injury, causing the Shadow Dragon Slayer to groan in unease, while all colour rapidly drains from his face.

“Man, that looks nasty... Bet it hurts like shit. Gimme a sec, I'll have you patched up in no time.”

Thus the blonde darts into their adjacent bathroom, quickly retrieving the first-aid-kit, before he applies a copious amount of a numbing, soothing ointment onto the angry trauma with a feather-light, gentle touch, before he guides the suddenly unsteady, pain-ridden form of his beloved into a sitting position, to wrap his torso up in bandages and ease his shirt back over his head.

“Here, take these. It'll help manage the pain.” He hands him two pills and a glass of water, while Rogue nods in appreciation, mumbling: “Wow, you sure know your way around our pharmaceutics by now. Was about time...” He already expects another head-bump for his teasing, instead, however, Sting only kisses his forehead – sweet and lingering – as he laughs quietly: “I think I need a shower. You get some rest, otherwise Sister Miriam will kick both our asses.”

 

When Sting returns from the hot, steamy seclusion of the bathroom, his muscles deliciously warm and heavy, he finds Rogue curled up on their bed, sound asleep with Frosch and Lector huddled close to his still, relaxed figure.

The blonde crouches down in front of him for a moment to marvel at his peaceful, unguarded features, letting his fingers ghost over the smooth cheeks, before he slides down next to his sleeping lover.

The Shadow Dragon Slayer lets out a quiet, mewling sound, as he snuggles up against his side, his heavy-lidded eyes hazy from exhaustion and drug-induced sleepiness, and the second he has rested his head on Sting's chest, his breathing has already evened out again,

The White Dragon Slayer watches over his sleep for a couple of content, transfixed and silent minutes, allowing one of his arms to sneak around the other's shoulders, while he reaches out for the book on his night-stand. Too many thoughts are running through his head for him to ever find rest right now, but he is okay with it, since for the first time in god knows how long, the warm light of the afternoon-sun on his skin feels as if he was being bathed in the silver-lining of hope.

Maybe things could turn out right after all; maybe not everything that was broken had to remain unloved. And maybe it was okay for him, to accept this happiness, this affection and start rebuilding himself.

In his arms Rogue sighs in his slumber and Sting pulls him closer, the gentle kiss pressed to his temple a silent oath against pale skin, while the sinking sun washes them out in the most vibrant shades of gold.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading,
> 
> stay safe and have my sincerest gratitude for the constant support.
> 
> Dearest greetings,  
> TGA


	18. Lifelines woven between sheets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road, I'm walking with staggering steps is winding, steep and growing weeds, so that I lose it easily and stray around, but there is a light shining through the briars; a light that always calls me back to you.  
> But as I find myself lost in a thicket of thorns once more, you handed me a pitch-black thread to guide me through the madness, so that I can make my way back to where you are and knot our bands together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there everyone,
> 
> and welcome back to Sting and Rogue's ... first attempt at "getting at it".  
> The Chapter has some non-explicit, consensual sexual content, but nothing graphic, some angst, but all in all we've had much harsher Chapters, so there won't be much of a warning today.  
> Just enjoy and maybe leave some feedback :-)
> 
> Dearest greetings, TGA

“... and the winner of this year's Grand Magic Games iiiiiissss.... SABERTOOTH!!”

An excited voice, tinny and contorted by the speakers, booms throughout the huge arena of Domus Flau, while a gigantic, dark skinned man with muscles like ripe melons bulging beneath his flesh sinks into the dirt, joining the already fallen form of a petite, red-haired woman, clad in green, almost swallowed up by a protective netting of ivy.

As the dust gradually settles, two figures emerge from the destroyed battle field, one suppressing a serious limp, the other one clutching a deep, bleeding wound on his shoulder, both of their features weary and closed-off, while the fist either of them rises in victory seems almost like a mock; a travesty only meant to placate the distant onlookers - anyone close by had found their gaze hollow and empty, lids heavy and swollen, as their eyes discretely search for one another.

Above them the enthusiastic commentator keeps on babbling at an insane speed, but neither of the mages listens, their ears ringing with exhaustion and pain, both only focused on staying on their feet, a steady trickle of blood dripping from countless wounds to stain the insatiable sand of the fighting grounds.

 

A thunderous cheering arises from the crowds, as the two young men slowly bow in front of the king and his daughter, before they're finally allowed to leave the arena and tend to their wounds.

Both barely make it to the changing rooms, before their knees buckle in faintness and their swaying forms crumble to the ground; not one ounce of magic energy left and nothing but an eery emptiness spreading inside of their chests.

“Hey, Rogue... You still with me?” the blonde grinds out, blindly feeling around before he finds a slick, cold hand to entwine his fingers with. A small, breathless whisper falls from split, numb lips, as the Shadow Dragon Slayer pushes away the increasing darkness trying to swallow him up.

“Yeah... still alive and kickin'... But damn, I feel like shit...”

Sting somehow manages a strained chuckle, as he rolls onto his back, one mud-stained hand coming to lie across his weary eyes.

“This was insane, man... The chick was crazy... I mean what's with that poison? I still can't feel my legs properly.”

“That's maybe for the best.” Rogue retorts groggily. “This gush on your calve looks really nasty and I don't think trying to burn it out with your magic was such a bright idea, after all. I just hope someone's gonna come looking for us soon, if I move another single inch, I'mma pass out right on the spot...”

The White Dragon slayer lets out a dark, mirthless huff of laughter, stating: “Better hope it's not gonna be Master. He'd kick our heads in, if he was to find us in that state.”

“The damn old fart can kiss my ass... We've won the fucking games, and the two of us did most of the work. He knows that as well as we do, so he'd better be keeping his rotten mouth shut, after those last three fights!”

The raven haired boy all but hisses his words, voice raw and venomous with repugnance, before a heavy, weary sigh falls from his blood-caked lips. “What a mess... If Orga hadn't humiliated their Guild Mate like that, those two would have been hella easier to take down... But God forbid this oaf would ever keep his damn foul temper in check.”

He would have sounded angry, had there been the least tiny bit of strength left in his body, but as things stand at the moment, Rogue only feels resignation and the faint reminiscence of disgust.

 

The Lightning-God Slayer had made a repugnant show of mocking his opponent on the fourth day of the Games, a dark haired, willowy girl from the “Oak Heart” Guild, by lifting her defeated form with ease and pressing a grossly obscene, forceful kiss to her lips.

Obviously unaffected by her repulsed aversion, he kept her struggling figure in check effortlessly and when she slapped him harshly, he flung her back down into the dirt impassively, bellowing:

“Hey, easy there Ms. Tiny-Titts! You'd better be thankful! Might be the only time a real man gets it on with a flat-boobed bimbo like you...”

The young woman had bitten back hot, angry tears, while the rest of her Guild stepped in, but Orga simply stared them down with icy, merciless violence in his gaze - and at that point Sting all but fled the gallery reserved for Sabertooth.

Rogue had to suppress the urge of darting right after him for the sake of their public appearance, but as soon as he found his Guild's attention focused on the God Slayer and the commotion down in the arena, he took his chance and bolted.

Letting his nose lead him, he found the blonde in one of the run-down, deserted restrooms, knees drawn tightly to his chest, head buried in his arms; a small, shivering ball pressed up against the wall beneath a row of sinks.

The Shadow-Dragon-Slayer already expected to find him upset or in tears – what he wasn't prepared for, however, was raging murder and helpless wrath glittering dangerously in azure eyes.

“How dare he?” He ground out, his voice low and menacing, and suddenly Rogue had no problem imagining him bursting into Dragon Force in beautiful, righteous fury.

 

“How despicable... The poor girl... She was shaking and he just laughed at her... I mean look at that humongous ogre, she had no chance of freeing herself...”

Now there were tears rising in the vivid eyes, and Sting's words came as small, toneless mutters, when he continued.

“Does he even know what that feels like? Being at someone's utter mercy, realizing there's not a thing in the world that can save you? Does he know how it feels, being humiliated like that?” His hands were quaking as Rogue took them carefully, lightly stroking his palms, and Sting leaned heavily against the firm warmth of his partner, head coming to lie on his shoulder.

“He's always been a cocky motherfucker, but that just now really went too far. I hope he gets a proper punishment!”

“From Master?” The White Dragon Slayer laughed mirthlessly. “That would mean the pot calling the kettle black... But maybe they could exchange some experiences, give each other some advice... Orga could learn one thing or another from him...”

“I feel so ashamed of our Guild right now.” Rogue admitted, cautiously resting his head against Sting's, his cheek nestled lightly to the soft mop of golden hair, whispering: “And I'm so sorry you had to witness that. Must've been hard to watch...”

The blonde merely shrugged in resignation, as he squeezed his eyes shut and sighed wearily:

“We should apologize to them later on, when everyone's taken a breather...”, while sensing a faint nod and a voiceless mutter against his temple:

“Yeah, I'd like that...” After that Rogue pressed a small peck to the cool skin of the other's brow, before he, too, fell silent as he focused on the reassuring weight reclining against his side, until his breathing came in sync with Sting's pulse.

 

They stayed like that for god knows how long, two quiet figures, sharing comfort and warmth in a colourless, damp room, huddled beneath dirty-white, mouldy sinks, from where cold drops of stagnant water dripped onto their heads every now and then – the sensation unpredictable and startling, yet unable to disrupt the bubble of wordless dialogue spun around the two boys.

Ever so slowly Sting found the tautness bleeding from his muscles, as if Rogue's touch alone was cleansing him with calm, steady waves of wholehearted kindness, while the distant, low, familiar beating of the other's heart reverberated through the marrow of his bones.

 

It's during slow, pensive moments like these, the White Dragon Slayer noticed, that even a literally run down shithole could become a sanctuary; a safe haven, if only Rogue was there to grace it with his presence.

Over the course of the past three months the limitless, natural acceptance the Shadow Dragon Slayer regarded him with; the patient, straightforward ways he dealt with his traumata and self worth issues alike, as well as the open affection he'd shown in each and every touch so far, had gradually made Sting not only realize, but also believe, that he was actually welcomed and loved unconditionally.

He'd struggled with it at first, uncertain how to deal with all the care so freely given in the face of his own paltriness, and ever so often he'd shed hot, painful tears, that this abundant tenderness and understanding was being wasted on someone like him.

But he'd always had faith his best friend, had never even once been given a reason to distrust his words, so he tried hard to convince himself, that his poor excuse for an existence and the helpless, desperate love he had to offer, were actually enough to make Rogue happy.

In the end, however, it's been his eyes, that did the trick.

 

Sting had never looked, whenever either leaned in for a kiss - lids fluttering closed, as soon as he felt the sweet, warm breaths ghosting over his skin - except for one day, when he'd been spacing out mid-talk and his lover had taken the opportunity to claim his still parted lips.

He'd noticed too late, that the pale face was closing in, but then he'd seen the soft, content smile spreading over the other's features, until it reached his ruby eyes, nesting there, as it set them aglow with a warm, deep-running satisfaction.

It only lasted for a moment, then the hooded lids slid shut, but to the blonde it spoke volumes.

The kiss they'd exchanged afterwards had been long, intimate and tasted like home.

 

Their secluded moment of solace was abruptly interrupted by a stampede of thundering footsteps in the hallways and the increasing buzzing of agitatedly chatting, cheering and arguing voices, marking the end of today's tournament.

The boys arduously weaved their way through the crowds blocking exits and corridors alike, to get to the more restrictive area's of Domus Flau, reserved for the members of the participating Guild's, as they searched for the locker rooms of Oak's Heart, finally finding them at the end of a rather quiet, empty hallway.

But the moment Sting had reached for the rustic wooden door to knock, two blurred forms the Dragon Slayers only noticed from the corners of their eyes, had already flung them off of their feet, sending them crashing into the adjacent wall in a flash.

Two guys appeared in front of the Twin Dragons seemingly out of nowhere; their faces grim and their postures defiant, as they closed in on the shorttaken boys.

“What is it that you want with our Guild now? Haven't you done enough damage, yet? Or did Master Jiemma now send the top tier to take over, where his gorilla let up?” One of them retorts, his green eyes hard and bright in anger.

“Wait up, man... Calm down...” Sting picked himself up slowly, a hand pressed to a sluggishly bleeding cut on his eyebrow, his tone low and honest. “We're here to apologize for the behaviour of ou-....”

A humming, pulsating whip made of pure magic energy suddenly lashed out and struck the blonde across his chest, ripping apart his shirt and vest in an onslaught of mindless fury.

 

“Are you shitting me?” The short, slender attacker yelled, voice almost hitching in raw aggression. “And who are you expecting to believe that? You're like... Jiemma's top two... No way you'd just saunter in here to apologize. I'm surprised this word even exists in your vocabulary...”

“Yeah...” the second one piped in, “Bet the Council forced you to make amends. Or did your Master send you to eliminate us for good?”

Rogue had finally stumbled back to his feet, and though it took him a great amount of effort, not to up and beat the shit out of the guys, who dared to hurt his beloved, he, too, remained placative and collected.

“No... it's true... The two of us... We're here on our own accord. No one sent us and no one even knows we're here. We witnessed, what happened and we wanted to let you know, that we don't agree. Even though I guess it won't help all that much now...”

 

“Fuck off...” the unnamed leader of the duo hissed, before he spat right into Rogue's face.

Wiping away the slick trickle of saliva dripping from his cheek, the Shadow Dragon Slayer wordlessly spun around to leave, shoulders slumped in defeat, head shaking disbelievingly when the other mage continued:

“I don't believe a single word that you said. I've heard how your Guild works... You're cruel and selfish. And I bet you came here, to taunt poor Catriona even further. Have you any idea, how she's feeling? She'd been humiliated, violated before the eyes of everyone she knows. In front of the whole country. And I bet even her parents had to see it.”

With every syllable he sent his whip whirring through the air, and it hit Sting's ear with a sickening sound, sending the White Dragon Slayer back to his knees in pain.

“I just hope, you get to experience something similar some day in your life, so that you get a taste what being demeaned and abused feels like, fucking scum.”

With a series of quick, harsh flicks of his wrist the searing hot lash went flying out again and again, each hit a bit more cruel, a bit more forceful, as blow after blow rained down on the crouching figure; a judgement announced in sharp, unforgiving snaps; executed in bloody streams on sun-kissed skin.

The blonde, however, made no move to defend himself, didn't even try to shield his face; simply remained kneeling in front of his tormentor, head hanging low, hands loosely by his side, as he took the beating without a single sound leaving his lips.

 

His lack of offense only seemed to fuel the wrath of his opponent to new heights, as he suddenly raised his arm, preparing for an especially powerful attack aimed right at the exposed neck of the unyielding Dragon Slayer.

All of a sudden, however, he found his motions stopped roughly -shadowy tendrils restraining his every movement - while Rogue grabbed one of Sting's limp hands, and, yanking him to his feet hastily, all but dragged him away from the fight, yelling: “You assholes... He never did anything to you! And you're calling us cruel? Fuck off, hypocrites!”

A wall of swirling blackness erupted around his feet, securely shrouding both him and his lover, who stumbled listlessly by his side, and they made their escape in the safe embrace of a familiar darkness.

 

Neither talked on the short way to their inn, Sting's face closed off and pale, the Shadow Dragon Slayer's brow furrowed in sorrow, as he glanced at the angry red cuts criss-crossing almost every visible inch of his tanned skin.

His fingers itched with the desire to reach out and trail a soothing hand over the harsh welts, while the urge to utter words of comfort weighed heavily on his mind, but by now he'd come to understand that the brooding, moody silence together with the withdrawn demeanour meant, that Sting had retreated into himself, trying to sort things out on his own.

A sudden touch would only upset him, and meaningless phrases would fall on deaf ears altogether, so the Shadow Dragon Slayer resolved to providing wordless succour by not pestering, prying or pouting, instead rather making sure, that no one else was to bother them in their current misery.

Sting would reemerge from his mental fortress of solitude eventually, collected and grateful for the respect his friend had paid to his quirks, and he'd compensate Rogue for his patience with eager lips and curious, roaming hands.

So it came as no surprise when the haze lifted from ocean blue eyes ever so slowly, as soon as the creaky old door clicked shut behind the two of them and the outside world backed away from the unsettled boys.

Pale fingers grabbed the still lifeless, cold hands, entwining with them easily, to guide the blonde over to the king-sized bed, while the Shadow Mage crouched down in front of him to take in the damage from up close.

A steady trickle of half-clotted, dark blood ran sluggishly from the clammy forehead all the way down to the prominent chin, oozing from a cut directly beneath the golden hairline.

Countless similar wounds littered arms, chest and back, their sight in itself sickening enough to cause Rogue's stomach to drop anxiously, but the blood gushing down Sting's neck indicated an even more severe injury somewhere at the left side of his head.

“Damn... you really went through a trashing... I'm so sorry I didn't act faster... I was just so totally out of it for a second...” he looked at his partner lovingly - his gaze apologetic and so very sad – until the White Dragon Slayer pressed a gentle kiss to his hand, the one still tangled with his own fingers, whispering:

“Not your fault... I should have defended myself, but right at this moment his words made me feel like I actually deserved it...”

“But none of this...” Rogue interrupted, urgency and a deep dark pain chafing his voice into something sharp and aching, when a light touch sealed his lips with fleeting warmth, that left a sweet after-image ghosting over the sensitive skin.

“I know.” The blonde's tone was steadfast and calm in understanding, born from countless moments of inner dialogue and pondering, so that now, as he opened up to his other half again, no doubt, no despair had been left behind; only a deep regret, that tasted bitter on his tongue.

“I know it wasn't my fault. And it sure as hell wasn't yours, his words simply caught me off guard for a moment. But it's okay. I may not look like it, but I'm fine. Just a bit shaken...”

 

“Alright... had me scared there for a sec.”

Rogue's nimble fingers hovered questioningly over his cheek, the longing to close the distance having them buzzing quietly in anticipation.

A content, small sigh fell from cracked lips, before Sting leaned into the touch and his lashes fluttered against the cool, scarred hands; signalling his worried beloved, that his touch and presence were very much welcomed and appreciated.

 

With careful, slow motions the Shadow Dragon Slayer tilted the blonde's head to the right, inspecting the cause of the massive bleeding, to find the pendant usually dangling from the earlobe soaked in blood, glistening like a macabre ruby in jewellery straight from a nightmare.

Sting's left ear looked butchered, to say the least, what with the earring in question only being held in place by a thin thread of tissue, the earlobe nearly completely split, while the cartilage showed three deep fissures, all of them bleeding profusely.

Rogue swore nastily, before he got to work.

 

One hour later – one hour of constant, cautious dabbing, rubbing, cleaning and dressing – Sting had curled up on their bed, head cushioned comfortably on the other's chest, hands trailing mindless, gentle caresses all over his body, as he drank up the warmth and closeness hidden in the quiet evening air.

The crystal pendant was now dangling from a silver chain around his neck, for Rogue had to stitch up the gush; his hands, deft as they may be, had shaken so bad, it took him six attempts to finally find the courage to pierce through the flesh.

Even later on, with everything patched up nice and clean, he would still grace the neat stitches with a butterfly kiss ever so often, eliciting strangely strangled chuckles from a raw; hoarse throat.

“That feels nice...” Sting whispered timidly, a faint blush dusting his cheeks, allowing some colour to flood his bloodless skin; and it cued Rogue to let his lips once again roam loosely over the delicate skin right behind his ear.

A shudder ran down the blonde's spine, languorous and delicious, as he felt a trail of hot, playful kisses teasing his neck; the sensation leaving him light-headed and faint.

Without even thinking, he let his head loll sideways to give Rogue a better access, while his arms sneaked around the slender waist, urging the Shadow-Dragon-Slayer to straddle his hips with an unusual eagerness.

He sat up leant back against the head-board, his lover now comfortably heavy in his lap, as the tip of a nimble tongue tickled the soft spot just below his hairline, before open-mouthed caresses started wandering further down to nibble gently at the hollow of his throat, causing a content, quiet moan to reverberate through the small sliver of space still left between their entwined bodies.

 

Sensing a traitorous, throbbing tightness starting to pool beneath his waist, Sting connected their lips with a certain neediness, the kiss growing hungry and sloppy by the second, as he panted passionate little nothings right against Rogue's mouth and the dark haired boy devoured them greedily, his sensual purrs in return vibrating down the blonde's throat.

Warm, languid fingers slid beneath the thin layer of fabric covering the muscular, tempting chest of the White Dragon Slayer, their touch certain, yet gentle, as they wandered leisurely over broad shoulders and a firm stomach, efficiently erasing each and every coherent thought from Sting's mind safe for the desire of a deeper connection.

So he coaxed Rogue into shedding his shirt, silently marvelling at his immaculate body, while his fingers couldn't get enough of the deliciously warm skin that shivered ever so slightly beneath his ardent, almost touch-starved caresses.

The Shadow Mage withdrew the tiniest little bit to take in Sting's flushed, breathless appearance; gaze fixed on the cherry-red, so kissable lips panting against his collarbone, before searching for signs of unease in the heavy-lidded, hazy blue eyes that were glued to his face in open admiration and wonder.

When he found nothing but the heady shimmer of lust swirling in the gemstone like orbs of cerulean, he cautiously eased the tight-fitting top over Sting's head, all the while keeping the blonde distracted by peppering his jawline with feather light kisses. Kisses, that held the hidden promise of more intimate pleasures yet to come.

 

A soft summer rain started pounding against the window-panes and with the darkening sky outside, their room suddenly became a dimly lit, secluded keep that belonged only to the two of them and they claimed it with quiet gasps and whispered endearments, as their bodies pulled each other in, carried by invisible centres of gravity somewhere deep down in their rushing blood.

A shudder ran through Sting's form, when a draft of chilly, humid air hit his bare chest like the hand of a capricious wraith, goose bumps prickling all over his smooth, heated flesh, but suddenly Rogue leaned closer, wrapping his arms around the elegant neck and bumping their foreheads together gently.

The moment their naked skin made contact and the overwhelming warmth, radiating off the dark haired boy seeped into his being, a jolt raced through the blonde's nerves, setting them on fire and causing sparks of electricity to explode in any sensory cell of his body, so that the sharp intake of breath was an almost visceral reaction.

The Shadow Dragon Slayer carefully nudged his lover's nose with his own, while he threaded his fingers into the silken strands and hummed a questioning little sound, making sure, his partner was still at ease and comfortable.

“Something wrong?” he whispered lowly, his lips almost grazing the other's as he spoke, yet his hands stilled their ceaseless motions and his voice held concern.

But Sting only chuckled quietly at the adorable way Rogue squinted at him, cross-eyed in the effort to meet his glance even this close, before sneaking his arms around the slim waist and pulling the hesitating form against his chest, breathing in the surprised gasp falling from flushed lips as soon as he moved his hips tentatively.

 

He was hard already, both of them were, and this close he felt the Shadow Dragon Slayer trembling in excitement, yet still restraining himself adamantly to let the blonde take the lead, and the gratitude rising in his chest made him feel all warm and fuzzy, cherished and safe.

“You're the best thing that could've ever happened to me, do you know that?” he muttered between nibbling and sucking, as his caresses wandered all over the broad shoulders, turning his beloved into a heavily breathing, shaking wreck, as he moaned quietly beneath the teasing touches.

“Yeah?” Rogue panted huskily, his voice hoarse and suggestive. “That so? Maybe I should do something to actually earn this kind of a high praise...”

Before Sting could make much of his words, he already found himself sprawled on his back, Rogue hovering above him for a second, hooded eyes scrutinizing his face, in search of even the tiniest trace of discomfort, but when he only found soft, relaxed features, he started kissing his way from the rough stitches on the ear downwards.

He took his time, nibbling here and there, lingering on all the sweet spots, that elicited a low moan or an enticing gasp, until his lips finally met the waist band of the other's pants and there his movements stalled. All of a sudden he'd become afraid of his own boldness, had totally lost himself in the moment without wasting so much as even a single thought on any possible negative reaction from his lover - but the way the previously relaxed muscles started to twitch and contract told him that they were slowly moving out of his comfort zone.

The White Dragon Slayer, however, ran his fingers carefully through the dark, soft tresses, his nails scraping the sensitive skin underneath deftly, just like the raven-haired boy relished oh so very much, before muttering:

“It's okay... You- you can go ahead if you wanna...”

His voice sounded convinced and certain, the gentle digits not stopping or trembling as he spoke, but Rogue still caught the tiny moment of hesitation and the way Sting's heart beat changed its rhythm wasn't lost on him either.

So he proceeded with utmost caution, pressed tickling pecks all over the chiselled sinews and muscles on his lower belly, kissed the prominent hip-bones while carefully reaching out, to undo the first button of light grey trousers.

Beneath his lips he could feel the skin twitching erraticly, abs brimming with tautness, and the other's pelvis jerked involuntary, as soon as his hand reached out for the second button, while the fingers still tangled into his hair clenched painfully for a second, before releasing their death-grip.

The digits, however, remained rigid, with their tips rapidly cooling, before the White Dragon Slayer mumbled a strained. “It's fine.”

Initially Rogue was almost tempted to believe it, was already about to gently nuzzle his groin, but then Sting continued muttering the two words over and over again, until it became perfectly obvious, that the statement had never been meant for the Shadow Mage to begin with, but rather a means for the blonde to somehow stay in control.

 

Not that it worked all that well, what with the rigour, that had befallen his whole body by now or the way he'd squeezed his eyes shut – almost like a child hiding from a thunderstorm, and for a moment he didn't seem to realize that his lover had already drawn back, until the low, calm voice broke through the mumbled mantra.

“Shhh... you're safe, remember? Nothing can happen to you... “ and finally sapphire eyes snapped open, wide in shock and bright with the heralding of tears, yet the terror seeped out of them soon enough, leaving nothing but disappointment and frustration to darken the expressive gaze.

Covering his face with his arms in shame, Sting sighed heavily, a weight nearly tangible settling on his bare chest. “Sorry... I fucked up... It don't know what came over me... One moment I was totally fine with everything and suddenly...”

Even the shaking of his head now seemed full of weariness and pain, the movement sluggish and listless, while the blonde still couldn't bring himself to look at Rogue, fearing he'd find resignation and resentment prominent in his face.

When the dark haired boy spoke, however, his voice was gentle and warm, coaxing Sting into raising his eyes and opening up to the patiently waiting form of the Shadow Dragon Slayer laying next to him.

There was no hardness in his look, no refusal or reproach, but somehow the blonde knew, that something was bothering him; the same something always appearing in his features, when another attempt at intimacy ended in a similar manner, and it pained him to be the reason, why the other was now chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip, as he searched for the right words.

But as always they just refused to come, evasive and fickle like sprites, but also frightening and overwhelmingly powerful in their irrevocability.

 

Rogue had shied away from this conversation, had danced around the topic time and again, hoping against hope and better knowledge, that things would sort themselves out on their own for once- alas the two of them had never been blessed with such a blue-eyed wonder, so why should they be granted the luxury now?

Thus awkward stammering and clumsily forged words it was going to be.

 

“Listen Sting... This isn't going to work.”

Azure eyes went staring in shock but Rogue continued unperturbed, carefully reaching for the trembling hand, to reassure his other half, that he wasn't talking about their relationship in general; to make sure, he maintained some sort of contact and gave Sting something to cling to.

“I need you to promise me something.” His gaze never once left the blonde's face, trying to read as much as possible from the paling features, while laying all those things, words weren't enough to express, into his warm, hooded eyes.

His lover, however, already curled up and negligible, only shrunk further into himself, mumbling quietly:

“What is it?” The voice timid and hollow.

“Promise me, that you won't force yourself into doing something you're not comfortable with!

Promise me, you won't just “endure” things for my sake! I want you to tell me whenever you're feeling uneasy!”

Even though the Shadow Mage's words were nothing but open and affectionate, Sting still laughed joylessly.

“Yeah... and how do you expect this to get better someday, then?

I have to get used to things, is all. Can't you just ignore me and my stupid stalling? I know that you'd never hurt me. It's just... How shall I put it...”

“You know it here...” Rogue stated, his fingers gently rapping against the other's furrowed brow, before continuing: “But your body hasn't understood, yet. And I sure as hell won't ignore it, when you're giving me mixed signs of consent, just like you did right now. You told me to go ahead, but your instincts told you to run, am I right?”

 

The silence he received as an answer was more than enough to fill in the blanks, cueing him to ask:

“Do you honestly think, you'll come to enjoy intimacy when the only sensation it's ever been linked to was necessity and sufferance? I don't want you to only bear this... I don't want you to just stand my touch, because it'll lead to you resenting me sooner or later.”

“Bullshit... How can you say something like this...” Suddenly there was urgency in Sting's voice, as it trembled and snapped, but the way a deep, dark fear entered his gaze, told the Shadow Dragon Slayer, his words had hit home.

“Because it's the truth... Or maybe because it's what I fear...

Listen... how do I say this without sounding like an absolute prick... You're not the only one for whom this is difficult... I'm always afraid, that I'll do something rash, something you're not okay with and that I end up hurting you.”

Sting averted his eyes, look downcast, weary and devastated, whispering miserably:

“I'm sorry... Sorry for causing you so much worry. I wished I was less messed up. I wished I could somehow make things easier for you.”

“But that is what I'm trying to make you understand...” had the situation not been so damn heartbroken and heavy with pain, the exasperation laying hidden in Rogue's voice could have been amusing - right now however, it only added to the general feeling of helplessness surrounding the two boys.

But still, the wine-red eyes were as gentle as always, when lingering on golden hair, noble features and sun-kissed skin, so the rich tone followed suit immediately, breathing:

“C'mere... How often do I still have to tell you, that I'll never be mad, when you ask me to stop. I'm officially begging you now to be honest with me on that matter. Please, promise it!”

The White Dragon Slayer scooted over cautiously, hesitantly cuddling up against Rogue's chest, and while he wrapped his arms around the muscular, slim waist, mumbling despondingly:

“I promise... okay?” The tone rather impassive and not all that convincing, but the raven haired boy knew exactly, how to push Sting's buttons by now, so he added:

“Sting, love, this is important. Look, the thing is, when you're not being honest with me, try to play it cool for my sake, I'll notice... And then I'd have to watch out for each and every little sign of unease, would always question my actions and in the end I wouldn't be able to let go and enjoy this myself... And who'd ever gain anything from that kinda situation, I'm asking you...

So... do you understand now?”

 

And of course, if Rogue was to phrase it like that, the blonde would be more than willing to comply, since he'd do anything possible, and many a thing impossible, only to see his beloved smile; he'd gladly give his life and everything it had to offer, if only it was to bring him one moment of happiness.

Thus his entire demeanour changed, as he pressed soft kisses all over Rogue's face, muttering:

“I promise, my love.” before nudging his brow playfully with his nose, continuing: “But I then I want _you_ to stop worrying about each and every little reaction that I give. You're over-interpreting things. I know you're just being careful, you're afraid of hurting me... Don't get me wrong, I'm damn grateful for your patience, your _everything_ , but I'll hereby let you know, that I won't crumble into dust that easily. So stop treating me, as if I was made from fine china and sugar.”

His voice suddenly dropped as something bitter wormed its way into his speech, causing his lips to taste ashen and his eyes to mimic the sea in the middle of a storm, before he whispered hoarsely:

“Stop treating me, as if I was broken...”

Rogue's sharp intake of air, however, made him realize, just how unfair and insulting the Shadow Dragon Slayer might have found his words, so he added ruefully:

“I know you don't mean it, and I imagine I sound like the biggest, ungrateful jerk ever right now, but I want you to understand, that I don't need special treatment all the time. Just relax, I know you'd never do anything like this sick jack-ass to me, okay? I promise, I'll tell you, when things get too much... But unless I say so, I want you to just go ahead and do whatever you have in mind.”

A soft, lopsided smile grazed Rogue's features, unfurled on his face like the embers of a bonfire on a cold autumn night, as he leaned in and kissed Sting's lips with slow, pleasurable motions, his breaths ghosting over the blonde's tongue intriguingly: “How about we choose a safe-word? Just in case...”

 

Sting looked at him strangely, amusement and refusal both wandering ceaselessly over his face,

before he retorted disbelievingly: “I don't need one...” only to have the Shadow Dragon Slayer mumble softly against his skin: “But maybe I need it. Maybe I need this kind of a life-line, so that I can be absolutely sure, that I won't misunderstand, so that I know, I've given you all the means to communicate how you're feeling. Please, let me have this safeguard...”

So the White Dragon Slayer caved easily and tried hard to come up with a suitable word, all the while cradling the pale cheeks securely in his hands to trail barely noticeable caresses over the prominent features.

“Alright then... how about... Jabberwock?”

“Jabberwock?” Rogue chuckled quietly... “Why not... it's some kind of dragon after all...”

For a moment he fell silent, eyes suddenly fixed on the chaotic pattern of scars marring the tanned hands, allowing his fingers to trace some of them, before he finally spoke up again, this time grateful and low.

“Thanks, Sting. We'll make this work, just you wait...”

A speechless second passed, then the blonde had claimed the pale, full lips once again, and this time he wouldn't release them until much later.

They hadn't gone any further that night, partly due to the upcoming fights, partly because of the way, bright blue eyes ever so slowly started drooping, and the midnight hour found both of them sound asleep, their limbs entwined, after an evening filled with quiet chatter, low, bubbly chuckles and lingering, sweet tokens of endearment shared between pristine, warm sheets.

 

The thought of that special night and the countless small moments of pure, heartfelt happiness it brought, seeps into Sting's beaten, weary body on the cold floor of the changing room with a fuzzy feeling of a serene tranquillity, that fulfils and contents him more than the fleeting intoxication of victory ever could, and the distant thrumming of Rogue's heart resonates with something primal within his blood, causing it to run hot and vivid through his veins.

Beneath the stench of blood, sweat and dirt he still catches the heady scent of incense and cedar, and it awakens the memory of immaculate alabaster skin pressed flush against his chest, chiselled muscles moving beneath his hands and warm breaths panted against his neck.

Whenever he closes his eyes, an unruly mop of deepest black hair flashes in front of his vision, an almost translucent face, unguarded in bliss, lips parted and flushed, cheeks deliciously blushing- truly, the blonde marvels, witnessing Rogue in a state of arousal was stunning each time anew, and he just couldn't get enough of the way the careful, timid hands would tighten their hold around his waist, as he ground against his hips and devoured his mouth with passionate, longing touches.

Yeah, Sting really loves reducing his lover to a panting wreck, trembling beneath his hands.

So maybe …

 

The idea gives him some energy, gives him something that is actually worth moving just a little more, something definitely worth going the extra mile for, so when the hastily approaching clicking of heels announces the arrival of Sister Miriam, the White Dragon Slayer squeezes the lax, cold hand still in his grasp, inquiring cautiously: “Rogue? You still awake?”

For a moment, nothing but silence and deep, steady breaths answer his question, then the raven haired boy stirs, his reply slurred with exhaustion: “Yeah... Whaddissit?”

Blood-smeared, weak fingers start stroking his unmoving palm with light, comforting motions, as the blonde whispers: “I wanna try something, when we're back at the inn...”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some general facts at the end:  
> Our SaberBabes are sixteen now, and it's the second time they're participating in the GMG... Which isn't exactly canon-compliant, if I remember correctly, but you know what? Suck it.
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> Stay safe and have nice Easter Holidays (or Ostara for any followers of the old path).
> 
> Dearest greetings, TGA


	19. Static, sparking in the gathering storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There seems to be a storm surge raging in my veins, and all my senses are drowning in its current.  
> As I am the tidal wave, helplessly following the turnings of the flood, you are the moon, that keeps pulling me in.  
> And as your whispers fall from the skies, my froth ascends into the heavens, silvery drops only shed for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys,  
> this time from Bella Italia... I just have you know, that Firenze and the Toscana are gorgeous, and I'm writing all that beneath a blooming apple tree in the light of the moon. If that isn't cheesy, I don't know what else is, but still "Here's to la dolce vita!" *raises glass, downs the wine*  
> Anyway, in this Chapter I've actually done something I'd once decided I wouldn't write. And that is a true lemon.  
> But then this fic came along and suddenly intimacy was moving more and more into the spotlight... And now we're here...
> 
> It's nothing super graphic (I guess??), but I still changed the rating to M, just to be on the safe side.
> 
> Since this is the very first time, I've ever written anything that could be considered smut, I'd really appreciate some feed-back... Too cheesy? Too explicit? Too... sucky? (pun intended)
> 
> Well, I just hope I could deliver something acceptable.
> 
> Dearest greetings, TGA

The dull, reverberant thud of a heavy door falling shut seems to be a healing balm to tired ears, as the two worn out, swaying figures of the Twin Dragons finally stumble across the threshold of their shared room, leaving anxiousness, exhilaration, violence and pain behind in the gloomy hallway.

The strain and exertion of the previous week clings to them like stiff, formal garments, and they're more than relieved to be finally able to shed them; the quiet, mellow aura of a comfortable exhaustion spreading around them akin to well-worn, warm, familiar clothes.

Sting slowly limps over to the window, arms propped up on the sill, while he gazes out at the city bustling and buzzing with hundreds upon hundreds of people, his eyes wandering aimlessly and unfocussed, until Rogue steps behind the hunched form of his lover, allows his arms to sneak around the blonde's waist, and nuzzles into the dip between his shoulder blades; his head a steady weight that anchors the White Dragon Slayer firmly in the presence and keeps his mind from straying to places dark and hideous.

They stay like that for quite some time; Rogue's chest pressed flush against Sting's back, his arms holding onto the other boy almost desperately, his face hidden in the slackened muscles of strong shoulders, and for a moment the blonde is certain, he could feel the dampness of tears seeping through his shirt, right into his still stuttering heart.

When he turns around, however, to grip Rogue's chin gently and lift his head, he surely finds his ruby eyes hooded and battle-tired, but also vigilant and somehow expectant, what prompts him to kiss the tip of the somewhat cold nose with sweet, innocent motions.

“There's gonna be a fair tonight to celebrate the end of the Tournament...” he states lowly, as he lets his lips wander softly to the corner of lids so heavy and dark, there was no telling where the deep circles of weariness stopped and the blackish-blue bruises started, before whispering against the milk-white brow:

“Do you wanna go there with me?”

Trailing butterfly kisses all over Rogue's temples, eyebrows, neck and cheeks, he added: “It's still early in the afternoon, so we could rest up as long as we want, and then grab a bite to eat and perhaps a pitcher of wine down at the plaza... Sounds like a plan?”

The Shadow Dragon Slayer looks him over with hazy, loving eyes that brim with a tranquil, open affection, before he catches Sting's lips in a chaste, ardent touch, mumbling: “Fine by me... But right now I definitely need to bathe... I feel filthy as fuck.”

Bright azure eyes suddenly lighten up at the statement, careful hands come to cradle the raven haired boy's cheeks, as the blonde stammers: “Oh.. ahm... okay... Just... Could you do me a favour and let me have the first shower, please?”

Rogue knows that resistance is futile, as soon as he notices the big, pleading puppy eyes Sting regards him with, the sight so adorable, so rare and light-hearted, it has a small spark of warmth fizzle deep down in his stomach, but he's also curious why his lover was so keen on washing up first; so he inquires:

“You okay? It's not like you to call dips on the first round of bathing... But feel free to go ahead if you wanna...”

Another series of kisses - this time lingering, playful and sensual - falls on pale, full lips; kisses, between which the blonde murmurs suggestively against tender skin: “Be patient... You'll see. Just trust me, okay?”

The answer is little more than the faintest of whispers being shared between two gentle mouths softly embracing one another: “Always...”

 

Thus Sting disappears behind the door to their adjacent bathroom, making quick work of scrubbing his body, as excitement fuels his movements and longing speeds up his usually extensive cleaning routine.

But he still takes time to use the soap he'd bought in town on the first day of the Grand Magic Games from a small street vendor, whose intriguingly smelling goods had lured him in from almost a mile away.

The bar he'd bought for himself spreads a scent that reminds of a clear spring day, crisp, yet warm; flowery, but with a note of tartness – a strangely harmonic mixture of verbena, sandal and bergamotte.

 

About ten minutes later he steps out of the shower and gets dressed, ridiculously glad to be finally able to slip into sweatpants and a loose, dark blue hoody, and starts pouring a bath for his beloved.

Then he heads to the bedroom, where he finds Rogue perched on the window sill, knees drawn to his chest, as he watches the ceaseless stream of people passing by their window, with his eyes distant and hazy, his mind obviously straying around in god knows what far away spheres.

The White Dragon Slayer nearly tiptoes over to the withdrawn figure, careful not to startle the inattentive boy, as he cautiously slings his arms around the sagging shoulders and rests his chin lightly on top of the thick mop of pitch-black hair.

Pressing a firm kiss to the raven crown, he smiles softly against the silky strands, and as his lips slowly slide down to tickle the curve of Rogue's ear, murmuring: “I've run a bath for you... “

The Shadow Dragon Slayer tilts his head back against Sting's chest, so that he can look at him upside down, a tired smile playing at his features, as he replies with a small, voiceless: “Thanks, that's sweet of you.”, before he slides down with a fluid motion.

Surprisingly, he finds himself in Sting's arms once again, the blonde nuzzling the crook of his neck, asking hesitantly:

“Is it okay, if I come with you? “ and as Rogue only looks at him, one eyebrow raised questioningly, he laughs airily and unusually bashful, adding: “I'd like to wash your back.”

Keen, red eyes sparkle with amusement, as the Shadow Mage nudges the blonde's forehead gently, chuckling: “You don't have to ask for permission to scrub my back, you know. We've done this before, remember? As if I'd ever reject being taken care of by my gorgeous boyfriend.”

With a certain feeling of satisfaction, Rogue notices the warmth creeping over his lover's face, dusting his cheeks with a faint shimmer of pink, somewhat dispelling the ghostly pallor that had been haunting his features ever since the Games had started.

 

Once the two of them are cooped up in the tiny bathroom, warm hands coax the black haired boy out of his garments, every now and then straying from their task to wander leisurely over a firm chest, broad shoulders and a muscular back, quietly awestruck by the perfectly sculptured body and the milk-white alabaster skin.

Milk-white alabaster skin, that could have been called impeccable, if it hadn't been for the countless scars covering a considerable amount of Rogue's form; erratic keepsakes of violence, irrevocably etched into his flesh from a gruesomely young age on; memoirs of pain and struggle written in blood that should still be sweet with innocence and inviolacy.

As if he could make up for those countless tokens of force; give back the insouciance so cruelly stolen from his partner, Sting follows the course of the angriest slashes with a string of loose, open-mouthed kisses, while his fingers ghost over every inch of the Shadow Dragon Slayer's torso, causing goose-bumps to rise in their wake and shivers to run up and down the curve of his spine.

 

Taking in the full sight of his bared beloved, the blonde can't help but gape, breathing: “You're gorgeous, Rogue. Do you know that?”

The statement elicits an unintelligible grumble, but otherwise the Shadow Mage refrains from commenting on it, rather sinks into the tub with a deep, contented sigh of pure and utter bliss, as he feels warmth seeping into his stiff, tense limbs and the tight knots in his stomach uncoiling.

A soft sponge starts rubbing over his back and shoulders with calm, steady motions, spreading a rich scented soap over his pale skin, the perfume tingling his nose curiously.

“Smells nice...” he mutters appreciatively, his voice melting into a purr as soon as Sting's fingers find their way into his hair, combing through the raven strands to carefully ungarble the tangles and knots, before wringing out the sponge right over his head, allowing a pleasant trickle of water to rain down onto his crown.

 

Wine red eyes flutter shut with a quiet, content sound of complacency when deft hands begin massaging the sensitive scalp as the blonde applies a copious amount of a shampoo, that gives off a fragrance similar to the soap, so that the whole room is filled with the essence of patchouli, cedar and rose-wood; the aroma beguiling, heady and willingly clinging to Rogue's skin as if it had always been waiting to be worn by no one else but him.

As his mind starts drifting, he feels his head getting heavier by the second, until the Shadow Dragon Slayer simply lets it loll back limply, completely trusting Sting to cradle him safely, as his weary lids, seemingly infused with lead all of a sudden, slide shut and he hands himself over to the weightless sensation of balancing on the thin edge between vigil and sleep. The ceaseless, cautious touches the blonde regards the sensitive skin with, however, keep pushing him towards the tempting oblivion only a small tumble away.

 

But then the nimble fingers withdraw and gushes of water fall onto unruly, jet-black tresses, as the White Dragon Slayer rinses the foam, calling Rogue back from the brink of nothingness, pouting at the sudden lack of contact and caressing.

Sting only chuckles lightly at his grumpy, obviously sulking boyfriend, before pressing a sweet lopsided kiss to the pursed lips, laughing: “You're so cute when you're miffed!”, while he nibbles tentatively at the soft flesh.

The statement doesn't really help that much, only causes the Shadow Mage to grumble a low: “'m not cute!”

Still, he all but melts into the kiss, his wet hands coming to cradle the blonde's cheeks lovingly and a soft sigh mingles with warm puffs of air as the space between their lips narrows down until it is no more.

“Yeah... You keep telling yourself that!” Sting murmurs upon breaking apart; then moves around to kneel in front of his beloved and let the sponge wander smoothly over the chiselled chest, carefully trailing lower.

He can hear the other's pulse picking up speed, breaths now coming the tiniest bit quicker with the blood starting to run hotter through Rogue's veins and by the time he's made it past the waistline, he feels the same arousal, that starts building beneath his hands, also coiling deep down in his own guts - a sweet, alluring ache pulsating somewhere below his navel.

 

From there on he proceeds with utmost caution, while he strokes hips and pelvis, eliciting a sharp gasp from flushed lips, as he grazes the sensitive inner thighs, before roaming further down to tickle graceful feet.

Once again he realizes that Rogue's ankles are unusually delicate, nearly feminine in their graze, but that only adds to the peculiar nimbus of nobility surrounding his almost aristocratic figure.

The spell, however, is broken, as soon as the Shadow Dragon Slayer starts squealing and thrashing to avoid the fingers ghosting mercilessly over the sole of his foot, sending water and foam splashing all over his boyfriend.

The idea, that someone like Rogue, who always seemed collected and calm - at the first glance even dark and brooding - was ticklish of all people, had amused the blonde for ages and sometimes he couldn't help himself; just had to tease his partner the tiniest bit, to coax that bright, breathless giggle out of him, that always has his heart skip a beat.

But right now something far more enticing is occupying Sting's mind, something that causes his thoughts to reel and spin exclusively around the addictive sensation of bare skin beneath his touch... So he lets his hands carefully slide up once again, allows them to roam over the soft curve of the slender hips, before carefully reaching out to caress Rogue's already half hard member; the sudden gasp a sign, that his lover hadn't expected this kind of boldness from him.

 

Not that he complained... quite the opposite, actually, since his head sinks back, breaths coming in soft little puffs that catch in his throat, while desire softens and clouds his gaze, resting on the face of the White Dragon Slayer in open, wide-eyed wonder.

Sting's motions are feather light and cautious in the beginning, each of his fingers exploring and mapping out a tiny part of the uncharted territory, always probing, always eager to find an especially sweet spot, a particular move that would draw a soft noise of pleasure from swollen, deep red lips.

He quickly finds a distinctive rhythm of stroking, interspersed with careful pumping, that seems to rob Rogue of his senses, what with the trembling of his arched up back, the twitching of his toes and the low, throaty moan reverberating through the mist-heavy air of the bathroom.

 

The Shadow Dragon Slayer is already absolutely captivated, his mind blissfully blank; swept away by wave upon wave of an all-encompassing sensation of lust, ecstasy and a deep craving for more; so it takes a great amount of willpower and effort for him to catch Sting's wrist and guide the tan, dancing fingers back up to lay on his chest.

The blonde's eyes widen in utter bewilderment, the fear of having somehow overstepped a line and unsettled his precious partner imminent and obvious on his features, as he whispers: “What's wrong? You okay?”

There's suddenly concern darkening his features and voice alike, but Rogue dispels his fretting easily by pressing a loving kiss to wet, dripping palms, mumbling: “Of course I am... This feels incredible... But maybe we should continue in the bedroom? Like on an actual bed? The water's getting cold...”

Sting relaxes visibly, tension seeping out of his posture, so that by the time he has pulled his beloved to his feet, there's no doubt left in his eyes, only a warm, gentle expression speaking of a commitment, a devotion and longing rooted thoroughly in his heart as it races with anticipation.

 

Strong arms wrap around Rogue's waist, lifting him out of the bathtub, yet unwilling to release their grip once they've eased him down, keeping him cradled to his boyfriend's broad chest.

Alluring warmth radiates off the form so incredibly close, the Shadow Mage can actually feel Sting's pounding pulse reverberate through his almost translucent skin - the sensation in itself thrilling enough to tighten his throat – but when a pair of hungry lips devours his willingly parting mouth, he can't help, but growl needily.

The blonde fumbles around blindly, while maintaining the deep, passionate kiss, and only breaks the contact shortly, to ease a sweatshirt over the still wet, unruly black strands, gesturing for the trembling form in his arms to slip into briefs and pants.

 

“You want me to get dressed? Is everything alright? If you changed your mind, that's totally fine, you know?” the Shadow Dragon Slayer inquires hoarsely, while his hands trail all over the blonde's back in calm, sweet circling motions and his lips remain glued to the nape of the other's neck, sending tickling sensations through the golden strands.

And if there had been any trace of misgiving left behind in his heart, the sudden wave of warm, overwhelming affection Rogue's considerate words sparked, would have drowned it easily in the feeling of utter acceptance and belonging, that only adds to his need of having him close and making him come undone in sheer pleasure.

 

Therefore Sting mumbles: “Yeah, 'm fine.” between harsh intakes of air, a smug grin spreading on his face, as he backs his lover up against the wall and starts grinding on him with languid, arousing motions, before he whispers hotly into the ear beneath his lips: “I just wanna undress you once again... “

Sensing the other's legs sway unsteadily – wobbly and weak with a yearning nestling throbbingly in his groin – he guides equally trembling arms around his neck and coaxes Rogue into wrapping his willowy legs around his waist, as he picks him up gently.

 

Sting doesn't break the hungry kiss, rather deepens the connection greedily as he feels the Shadow Mage rolling his hips against his abdomen, what causes a white spark of pure bliss to shoot through his whole being and he moans against flushed lips helplessly.

He's suddenly in a hurry to carry Rogue over to their joined bed, easing him down onto the mattress with cautious, sweet motions; strokes stray strands out of the hooded, tender eyes, and then comes to straddle the eager lap in an urgent pursuit of friction.

Beneath his hovering form the Shadow Mage is sprawled out on the sheets, has draped himself so covetable, so sensual, the blonde captures his panting lips once again, swallowing the husky gasp that flows over his tongue as soon as one of his hands comes to trail lightly over the the hard bulge in his pants.

Lost as he is in the carefully exerted motions, he doesn't even notice, that his boyfriend has suddenly conjured up a thin, black silk-scarf seemingly out of nowhere, holding it out for the White Dragon Slayer to take.

The blonde gazes at the other boy in bewilderment, before he explains himself hesitantly: “Sting... would it... I don't know... Would it make things easier for you, if you could somehow restrain me? Just an idea.. might give you the feeling of being in control...?”

Another bubble of achingly sweet, tender gratitude bursts within his chest at the concern and thoughtfulness he's being regarded with, leaving him filled with the certainty of being loved and cherished beyond anything he'd ever imagined.

 

With a small flick of his wrist he takes the scarf from Rogue's slightly quivering hand, but only to fling it away, leaning in for another passionate kiss, murmuring:

“Having my way with you while keeping you tied up feels wrong... I trust you. I wanna feel you.

C'mere...”

Sneaking one arm beneath Rogue's back to lift him up and coax him into shedding his shirt, he whispers a heated “I wanna see all of you...” before running his hands up and down the broad chest, efficiently easing the clothes over the black crown.

Once freed from the garment, the pale skin meets his lips deliciously warm, the muscles underneath unstrung and delightfully lax as the sculptured body surrenders itself to Sting's each and every touch.

His mouth gingerly nibbles away at the soft earlobes, before trailing lower; a path of faint red marks in its wake, pulling a string of quiet gasps and sighs from a purring throat – hushed sounds of satisfaction, that grow rougher, as soon as exploring lips come to tease hardening nipples with wet, hot caresses.

 

Rogue's fingers thread thoughtlessly through the wild, golden tufts of soft hair, all his willpower not sufficient enough to keep himself from fisting into the silken strands, but Sting doesn't seem to mind, rather moans lowly in consent, before he swirls the dark nipples around with his tongue again, then kisses his way further down; licking and biting gently wherever he deems fit and the sensation of his lover twitching and trembling under his caresses sends ecstatic shivers down his spine.

Soon enough his roaming lips meet the thick fabric of the other's pants and for a second his resolve wanes, but then his beloved lets out a mewling, almost desperate sound, that seems to plead him to go on, and thus he takes the waistband between his teeth and starts tugging playfully at the garment, until Rogue arches his back upwards and both trousers and briefs come loose.

Completely bare, the pale body looks like moonlight incarnate and the fair skin feels intriguingly soft and sensual as Sting lets his lips ghost loosely over the delicate inner sides of well-formed thighs.

The ticklish caresses seem to drive Rogue almost insane, a panted series of incoherent mumbles leaving his mouth, and when the blonde carefully nuzzles his arousal, he can't help but jerk his hips upwards and hiss a strangled “Fuuuck... “

Somewhere in the current of lust and leisure swirling in his mind, a shrill voice nags relentlessly; but only when he pries his attention forcefully from the hot breaths wafting over the hypersensitive tip of his erection, he manages to word his concern aloud:

“Sting... yo-you okay? You don't... nghhh- ah... you don't have to, if you don't wan... aaahh...” He doesn't even get to finish his already slurred sentence, for the sudden sensation of a hot, pliant mouth enclosing his hard, keen length sends his coherency spiralling.

 

Sting has already braced himself for the nauseating feeling of an eager rod protruding his lips with harsh, rhythmic thrusts that would aggravate his ovular, having him choke and suffocate, if he didn't keep his gag-reflex under an exhaustingly tight lock.

It's the sole experience he's ever encountered when it comes to pleasing someone with his mouth, and though it never did anything but disgust him, he's willing to try; willing to move beyond his narrow comfort-zone for Rogue's sake; adamantly believing, that he could stomach the dry-heaving and the unpleasant sensation of something large and throbbing getting shoved down his throat.

It doesn't even occur to him, that the calloused act might have been Jiemma's idea of a blow-job, but definitely not the approach of a consenting partner, let alone one as loving and cautious as Rogue.

Thus the White Dragon Slayer stalls dead in his tracks for a second, full of disbelieving bewilderment, when his lover remains still and relaxed beneath his lips, allowing Sting to take action as he pleased; as he was comfortable with; and since the stout manhood doesn't start fucking his face carelessly and rough, he comes to find licking and teasing his partner in the newly discovered way quite enjoyable.

 

His locked-up posture slowly unwinds and his unfocussed, glassy eyes slide shut, all of his senses now trained on the panting, quivering mess pressed up against his side, that is Rogue.

A deep satisfaction settles somewhere in his chest; fills a hollow he didn't even know was there, with a warm, fuzzy sensation of completion, as he realizes, that he's finally found a way to give something back to his boyfriend, a small token of love and an open demonstration of trust and gratitude, to repay him for countless hours of comfort, support and gentleness.

It's a debt, Sting is certain he will never be able to fully redeem, even though he knows, that his beloved doesn't expect anything from him, safe for his heart – and that had already been his from the very

beginning.

 

With all those grounding, reassuring revelations plucking at his heartstrings, his lips curl into a small, content smile as he settles down more comfortably; never once disrupting the ardent, leisurely embrace his mouth maintains around the tender flesh, drawing countless gasps and mutterings of pleasure from swollen, enticing lips.

 

The Shadow Dragon Slayer's pale fingers, that remain tangled in the silken, blonde spikes – nails scraping over the soft scalp – twitch every now and then helplessly, while his left hand suddenly starts tugging at Sting's shirt, and only when he's succeeded in easing the fabric over the fair head, does he trail unsteady, ginger motions all over the heaving chest.

 

Encouraged by the obvious zestfulness his motions evoke, Sting gets braver and adds his hands to the ceaselessly moving lips, letting one run up and down the shaft pulsating in sync with the thundering heart-beat, then adding a quick, swirling motion at the top, before sliding back down.

Meanwhile the fingers of the other hand rub steady circles at the base of the hard erection, tickling the vulnerable balls with the utmost caution as they go.

Sensing his lover's climax approach rapidly, the blonde withdraws his mouth and lightens his touches to just the right amount of pressure, to keep Rogue suspended in a state of lust-driven frenzy, at the same time wriggling upwards - a trail of love-bites and goose-bumps marking his way- before he finds himself pulled in eagerly, as the other boy kisses him with a never-known passion and heat.

 

By the time they're coming up for air Sting's head seems to be spinning heavily and it takes all his focus to keep on stroking his boyfriend in alternating patters, mindful of changing rhythm and direction of his hands regularly, so that the sensation remained unpredictably and thrilling.

He's trembling just as much by now, as if the quake running through his lover's form was traversing right trough his very core and his skin starts crawling in sync with the shaking chest beneath his lips.

So when he kisses his way back down to Rogue's groin with abandon, each high-strung muscle, every tight tendon of the aroused body becomes etched into his memory, adding yet another small detail to all those vivid impressions his mind puts together to form the beautiful picture that is his other half – each newfound puzzle piece a milestone and something he reveres quietly.

 

Once Sting's mouth trails once again over the Shadow Mage's member the breathless, throaty moan tells him, his lover was about to come any second and this time he doesn't tease and torment the gorgeously flustered boy, rather quickens the motions of hands and lips.

The already harsh puffs of air become even more ragged, interrupted by panted, incoherent exclamations consisting mostly of “Oh my god...” or “Sting..”; his hips start bucking erraticly, until with a deep, guttural sound of unaltered bliss, Rogue's body contracts one final time.

A warm liquid fills Sting's mouth, and he half expects the taste to gross him out as usual, but the seed lacks the vile, rancid flavour that had made him gag and sob so many times, his throat tightens up instinctively by now.

This time, however, no calloused fist yanks back his head and slaps his face harshly, as soon as he spits out the cum with disgust; this time something earthen and tart lies hidden under the initial saltiness; something that is distinctively “Rogue” and suddenly he finds himself able to swallow it down effortlessly.

 

Letting himself fall back onto the mattress limply, his head strangely light and fuzzy, the blonde realizes, he's huffing just as hard as his lover, as they both try to calm their racing hearts.

The Shadow Dragon Slayer' features still bear the reminiscence of an overwhelming pleasure, relaxed and flushed as they appear, his lips still parted and intriguingly plump from being kissed into breathlessness.

Sting looks him over in unabashed wonder.

Gazes at him with gentleness and affection, before carefully pressing a soft kiss to his nose.

A second later a pair of arms pulls him flush against a warm, broad chest, the thundering pulse raging beneath his ear, as long fingers trail lightly all over his back.

“That was amazing...” Rogue whispers into his hair, kissing the blonde crown tenderly. “Where did you get those kind of skills from?” Sting hides his face for a moment and realisation comes crashing down on the Shadow Mage, causing him to mentally kick himself for being so fucking stupid...

But to his surprise the blonde in his arms looks up to him, cheeks blushing a soft rosé, before he laughs – awkward and somewhat bashful: “It's a secret...”

 

One glance at his features is all it takes, for Rogue to stop fretting, for the look in the bright, cornflower-blue eyes is unguarded, serene and the tiniest bit embarrassed, telling him unambiguously, that this had nothing to do with Jiemma; that this belonged to them and them alone.

This was something Sting had chosen to give to him freely, and the weight of the gesture isn't lost on him.

A strong, warm feeling of unrivalled affection seeps through his body, and he wants to let his other half know, just how much this token of trust and commitment meant to him-

But not in a state like that... for all of a sudden he's painfully aware of his nakedness and the realization makes him positively uncomfortable, so he quickly shuffles back into his pants, before easing his arms around Sting once again.

Hooking a finger beneath the other's chin, he gently tilts his head up to meet the sapphire eyes, before he presses a slow, chaste kiss to the pink lips, breathing: “I love you.”

 

Hearing Rogue ask for the whereabouts of his technique sends the blood rushing to Sting's face and he silently swears to himself, that this certain instance is something he'll be taking to his grave, for the embarrassment he'd felt in those ten minutes is something he isn't keen on ever repeating.

Fully aware of his own insufficiencies in the field of physical contact, he'd actually sneaked off during the preliminary-rounds of the Games to a book-store where he'd spotted something that had picked his interest, when window-shopping with Rogue and the Exceeds the other day.

So as soon as he'd gotten a couple of minutes to himself, he had quickly grabbed a book with a suggestive, velvety black cover, which read in an intricate, pink front: “How to make him beg... An erotic guide for Her.”

The chubby, balding shop assistant didn't help matters either, when looking at Sting, laughing: “Oh man... is she really that bad?”, only to earn a confused blink and a short, dumbfounded “Huh?”.

“You poor guy must really be frustrated, if you buy something like that for your girl... I mean it's usually either frigid, old beasts or blushing wallflowers that buy this kinda book... Or are you maybe looking for the male counterpart?”

He scrutinizes the blonde once again, apparently oblivious to his cheeks burning a brilliant crimson, before he adds: “Naa, you look like a stout who could give it to 'em chicks properly... You dog, you...”

Obviously uncomfortable beyond saying, the White Dragon Slayer only nodded curtly, before all but throwing the money on the counter, yelling a breathless “Keep the change!” over his shoulder and darting out of the store, vowing he'd never ever set foot in there again...

So that was that... but the book, cheesy and awkward though it might have been, did help somewhat...

For it provided some kind of a guideline, a possibility of a rather observant, distanced approach of the matter that managed to give him a feeling of security and control.

But that was something, Rogue really wouldn't have to know, now, would he?

 

His lover, however, surprisingly doesn't pry, only seems to read his answers from his eyes, and his gaze had softened.

Then the sensual, gently smiling lips had claimed his mouth again; the gesture so sweet, so tender, Sting might have cried, had those three words tickling over his skin not silenced him for good.

He's overwhelmed, still, even though deep down he'd known ever since...

Catching fluttering eyelids with butterfly kisses, he responds a calm: “I know.”

A speechless second passes, before both of them start snorting, Rogue huffing: “Seriously?!”

But before he can continue teasing, the blonde has cradled the Shadow Dragon Slayer's cheeks, gaze searching amused, warm red eyes, as he states honestly: “I love you.”

And just like that everything is said and done.

The two boys curl around each other, limbs entwined, heart beats in sync, while the afternoon sun suddenly breaks through the clouds in a mesmerizing explosion of golden light.

The sparkles dance over charcoal-black strands and pale, chiselled features, illuminating the soft skin, and Sting's fingers brush away the fleeting shadows they're casting over Rogue's face, as he holds his sleeping lover close in a steady, secure embrace.

 

For a moment, the light flits across his eyes, too, and he realizes, that he is genuinely happy right now. Safe, warm and content, with the man he loves snoozing peacefully in his arms.

It's a sensation he hadn't felt in God knows how long, and he cherishes each and every second that it lasts.

Almost as if something subconscious hidden in his blood had already known, that the evening, which began so beautifully tranquil and gentle, wouldn't end in the same manner.

 

Outside, a heavy storm-cloud moves in front of the sun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone!
> 
> Stay safe and take care!


	20. The kindness of strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of distraction, a second of carefree youth and suddenly the wheels are in spin and what had been set in motion, isn't to be stopped again.  
> In the merry air of festivity tragedy stealthily creeps up on Sting, as a life dangles on the thinnest of threads, and it is only the mercy of a stranger, that might save it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there everyone, and sorry for taking two fucking months for updating this monstrosity... THis time my only excuse is, that I own a garden that needs intense care right now and thus had to be squeezed into my 40h work-timetable, together with anything else and I somehow lacked the energy to stay up until my usual writing time from 11pm to 1- or 2am.  
> Alas, the last few days I managed to stay awake (mostly because it's just too hot for sleep anyway) and I finally got some writing done.  
> The Chapter isn't as long as some of the previous, but I had my reasons for making the cut here (and Chap. 21 is almost done as well, but had I not divided them, it would have been 20something pages long... which is just too much IMO...)
> 
> But now, without further ado: Here's Chapter 20 of Sting and Rogue's never ending nightmare.  
> Once again probably loaded with typos... But I wanted to deliver... We don't beta, we die like (wo)men.

Dusk descends onto the busy town like a soft, lush veil; the evening air warm, gentle and sweet, carrying the intriguing scent of freshly cut grass and dew-heavy blossoms slowly opening beneath the pale shimmer of the rising moon.

In the last light of the fading day every contour is softened, every colour muted to a timid shade of pastel that pleases tired eyes, while a variety of tunes from different bands strewn all over town comes together in a strangely harmonious back-ground melody.

The mouth-watering smell of baked goods and grilled meat mingles flawlesly with the earthen perfume of an early summer evening and as Sting and Rogue stroll leisurely over the crowded town square, they find their senses pleasantly bewitched and dazed, mollified by the general air of carefree merry-making and the vibrant humming of young life.

The Twin Dragons aren't the only ones affected by the heady, beguiling atmosphere of the festival; as in every nook and cranny of the bustling town couples seem to be melting into the shadows; two forms firmly entwined in pursuit of the exciting pleasures of concealed touches and secret kisses shared under the twinkling of the first stars in the sky.

 

The two boys walk in comfortable silence; either of them enjoying the gentle summer breeze dancing over their skin, while their shoulders keep bumping against one another and their hands brush against each other ever so often.

From time to time Sting caresses Rogue's palm with a feather light touch that coaxes a small smile to his pale features, and he returns the secret caress by letting his fingers trail softly over any inch of sun-tanned skin that crosses their seemingly random path.

 

They weave through the crowd slowly, here and there browsing the wares of a vendor or nibbling on delicious morsels sold on every corner, and with their bellies comfortably filled, they head towards the centre of the towns square to fetch themselves a pitcher of the strong, velvet-red wine Crocus was famous for.

They're nearly there; can already smell the tempting, heady scent of oakwood and berries when suddenly:

 

“Cool, cool, cooool....”

 

A shrill, snapping voice rings through the serene buzzing of the merry-making folks around them and a bouncing cow-lick of yellow-blonde hair dances towards them rapidly.

“Sting... The White Dragon of Sabertooth... so damn cool...”

The nerve-wrackingly bubbly reporter of Sorcerer Weekly screeches, his voice obviously hoarse from commenting on the games for the past eight days, yet still mind-robbingly piercing and loud.

 

“Oh crap... I didn't think about him...” Rogue groans quietly, as he seemingly shrinks back to hide behind Sting. “There goes our fun little outing tonight...”

Jason had taken a particular liking to the Shadow-Dragon-Slayer, meaning that once he'd spotted Rogue's tell-tale tuft of raven-black hair somewhere, he'd cling to his heels for hours, questions upon questions tumbling from his never-tiring mouth, leaving the quiet boy with his cheeks burning and writhing in discomfort.

So the prospect of having the hyperactive lunatic trailing along doesn't appear all that appealing to either of the Dragon Slayers, but Sting is willing to take one for the team.

“I don't think, he's noticed you, yet.” He whispers. “Quick, get out of here, I'll deal with the talko.”

Rogue looks at him with unabashed gratefulness lighting up his eyes, as he squeezes the blonde's hand.

“You sure?”

Sting only grins, nodding: “Run for it, I'll find you later. No one should have to deal with an overly nosy guy after a day like this...”

“Thanks, love! I really owe you one!” a soft, low murmur... and with that Rogue melts into the warm, blurring shades slowly creeping over the town, until he's but a whisper carried by the summer breeze.

A wisp of shadows tickles Sting's skin fleetingly; a swift brushing of something incorporeal claiming his lips and it leaves behind the grounding taste of a bone-deep commitment and unwavering love.

The sensation warms him to his core, and he is still grinning like an idiot, when Jason catches up to him and starts flinging round upon round of questions at him; giving any machine-gun a run for its money.

 

Half an hour later the blonde journalist is still practically glued to Sting's heels, obviously hoping, that if he stuck with the White Dragon Slayer long enough, he'd finally get a hold of Rogue as well...

And Sting's patience is fading quickly...

It's not that he had a particular problem dealing with people once he made sure, they weren't going to... well, touch him in any unsettling way; but Jason had the habit of grabbing onto his arm, shoulder or whatever he could get a hold of, and the permanent contact starts to make him uncomfortable.

For the time being he could still stomach it, but he aches for quietness and the carefree safety of Rogue's company.

So when Jason turns his back to him, with a shrill “Cooool! Cool, Coool! Orga of the black lightning!! I've never seen a God Slayer up close!!!” he takes the golden opportunity so suddenly offered by whatever merciful deity taking pity on him, and darts.

Once he's made it safely to the other side of the square he slows down giddy and glad over his new found freedom and he is already about to seek out his lover, when he realizes that now was the perfect chance, to buy a present for his boyfriend without him noticing.

Their joined birthday is coming up and Sting wants his gift to be something special... Something that conveys just how much Rogue means to him; how happy he makes him; how much that he loves him.

Thus he saunters idly through the long corridors of vendor booths, browses the wares on display with utmost attention, and makes mental notes what he deems suitable or what strikes him as fitting.

He doesn't even realize, that he's taken almost an hour already, is totally engrossed in his shopping, when suddenly someone plucks at his sleeve.

For a second he almost expects Rogue to have caught up with him and he jerks back, fingers fumbling behind his back to hide the pendant he'd just purchased, but upon spinning around he finds a petite girl standing in front of him; her whole posture an epitome of unease and awkwardness.

She might be ten or eleven, long, mousy-brown hair braided around her head like a thick crown adorned with daisies and while her foot makes circles in the sand, she avoids looking at his face completely.

 

“Sorry, Mister...” She mumbles hastily. “My... my sister is a big fan of yours; she's watched all of your fights, but she's too shy to talk to you on her own...”

The way she speaks seems rehearsed, what with the insane speed she fast-forwards through her speech, and Sting finds it odd, but still endearing.

“So, she wants me to bring you this wine... As a small gift from a secret admirer... Will you take it? Please?”

Suddenly she seems desperate, and only now does she look up and meet Sting's eyes.

The effect is almost immediate...

The small hand, that is already extended to pass the blonde a generous, earthen pitcher of deep red wine, starts trembling and her greyish-green eyes widen in surprise.

“You?” She gasps, before spluttering: “The Dragon-Slayer Oni-chan?”

Sting looks her over without recognition for a second, but then something clicks deep down in his memory. “You're the girl from the farm, right?” he inquires curiously. “You had a wolf-rat infestation in your cellar...”

“Yeah!” A bright beam flashes over her face, but it falters almost instantly, her voice dropping to a timid whisper. “You... you remember us?”

“'Course I do!” Sting gives her the brightest smile he can offer, now that his chest gets tight with flashbacks. “I remember all of our clients...” And a small, venomous voice in his mind hisses:

“Especially the ones after which our Master almost raped me...” But he bites it back, forcing the smile back onto his face.

“I never realized, you had a sister... Sure don't remember meeting her that day... How old is she? Is she as cute as you?”

Sting had attempted to ease her shyness and obvious distress with the innocent little compliment; the girl however only stares at him with a pang of fear in her eyes, fidgeting even harder than before, until something adamant and iron enters her features and her head snaps up; eyes suddenly shimmering and jaw set in determination.

“Oni-chan...” she whispers with a sudden urgency out of the blue, as she moves closer and pushes the wine into his hand.

“Oni-chan you saved my whole family from the brink of starvation... Had no one slain those rats, they'd eaten all of our supplies for the winter and the whole stock meant for sale. We would have been ruined. And nobody was brave enough to do it, until you came along, oni-chan. I'm forever grateful for that... so... Onichan... please do not drink the wine. Only pretend to do so... we might be watched...”

Her hushed voice holds steel as well as honesty and Sting doesn't even have to think twice to believe her, but he's still so very surprised, overwhelmed with the whole situation, that the only thing he manages is a dumbfounded “What? Why?”, as he's already backing away subconsciously.

The girl however quickly catches his wrist, pulling his retreating form back towards her, whispering: “Please! Onichan! Play along! Pretend we're just chatting! I don't know, if they're watching... I'm sorry I lied to you... You're right, I have no sister... A man came to our house yesterday... He promised us a great deal of money, if only I was to give two guys a cup of wine... But he didn't seem like a nice person... And before he handed me those glasses today I think I saw him meddling with it... I'm not sure... But...

Please, Oni-chan... I don't think he's a good man...”

 

For a moment Sting feels, as if the world around him had just fallen away akin to paper stage setting and all of a sudden he'd found himself on a tall building, balancing a very thin ledge with raging storms pulling and pushing violently at his swaying form...

Absolutely stunned he whispers: “Why... Why are you telling me this? You'll be in danger...”

Whereas the girl only smiles sadly, as she looks him dead in the eye.

“Because I like you, Dragon-Slayer-oni-chan... And you helped us back then... I couldn't possibly allow you running blindly into a hideous trap... Besides... I already feel horrible enough for tricking the other one...”

For a second Sting looks at her fondly, gratefulness warm and heavy in his guts, when something at the back of his mind starts stinging and buzzing relentlessly...

Could it be?

“The other one?” He inquires quietly, hoping; praying...

“Yeah...” she answers, hanging her head again, while muttering: “The man made me give the wine to another boy... I didn't know him... I didn't want to, but he threatened to hurt my mom... She's really sick, you know...” She trails of miserably, eyes darkening with the heralding of tears, but Sting barely pays her a heed, a ominous foreboding tightening his throat, as he asks:

“The other boy... What did he look like?”

It takes the girl a moment to find her voice; a moment that seems like an eternity to the White Dragon Slayer and he has to force himself to stay calm and collected.

“He was about your age and height... black hair, dark clothes...” and Sting's stomach drops nauseatingly, as dread spreads throughout his guts and his skin starts crawling.

The ground seems to be giving way beneath his benumbed limbs as squeezes his eyes shut in a gesture of pure incredulous horror, then he forces himself to stay calm.

Caving to mindless panic wouldn't do them any good...

Besides Rogue could take care of himself if need be; he was as brilliant a fighter as he was sharp-minded; gullibility something foreign to him... But then again he had too precious a heart for his own good, and he wouldn't turn down a girl as cute as the one right in front of him.

“Did he take the wine?”

The faltering expression of the small face tells him everything he needs to know, even before she can answer, so he cuts her off agitatedly.

“Where did you meet him?” His feet itch with the urge to take off running, but he remembers her warning about being watched, and thus restrains himself to a forcibly casual demeanour, all the while it takes all his willpower not to shake her shoulders rashly, as it seems to take forever for the girl to find her voice.

“I met him in the small square behind the Cathedral... But Oni-chan... This was forty minutes ago... He could be anywhere by now... Wait, where are you going...” She adds, as Sting wants to bolt, but then he shuts her up with a careful hand petting her hair, whispering: “I gotta find this boy... I'm afraid that he's in trouble.”

“No, wait...” now she starts pleading with him and tears well up in those big grey eyes that are much wiser than her age would warrant. “Don't go. You'll be in danger... Just pretend that you drank the wine and then you could lead the guy on...”

But Sting is already withdrawing, and it is but a fleeting breathed good-bye that he leaves her with.

“This boy is so very dear to me, I couldn't allow him getting hurt. I'm seriously grateful for your warning and I'll find you once this is over, but now I really gotta go. Please take care...”

And with that he's off, manoeuvring through the crowd at an insane speed, every fibre of his being screeching with the all encompassing desire to find and protect the most valuable thing in his whole world.

 

Straining his nose, he tries to detect even a faint trace of Rogue's tell-tale scent, but the abundance of smells that had intrigued his senses only moments ago now clogs his air ways and benumbs his wits as if he'd actually tasted the alluring, dubious wine.

Muttering curses under his breath he pushes through carelessly strolling groups of inattentive, giddy people; annoyed about how they manage to block his path and slow him down without even trying, and it doesn't take long, until he's done with excusing himself when trying to pass by or even announcing his approach; as he resorts to simply pushing and elbowing everyone holding him back out of his way without further ado or even the slightest bit of remorse.

Too much was at stake, so manners could go suck it somewhere else...

 

It takes more than fifteen minutes.

Fifteen painstakingly slow, agonizing minutes filled with an anxiousness rivalled only by the unforgettable moments of sheer mind-eating terror, when he was certain that Rogue was dying right in front of his eyes, one time from a merciless fever-fit, the other time due to an iron staff running right through his chest.

Fifteen minutes... a long time to imagine all the things that could have possibly happened to his lover in the most vile, vivid colours and when Sting finally catches a whiff of earthy cedar and warm incense, his reeling mind adds the stench of blood and death he's almost expecting all by itself.

It takes him a second to notice that the stinging pang of copper is just a figment of his imagination, but the realisation does nothing to sooth the icy churning in his guts.

And thus he continues running, following the invisible trail etched into the darkening air of the mid-summer night through increasingly smaller, quieter alleys and around more and more crooked corners, until the small lane abruptly opens up to a tiny square right next to the river.

It's the Oldtown Bridge he finds himself at and he isn't surprised to find it deserted at that time and day.

Most of the residents were either at the market place or gathered around Mercurius to watch the fire works and who ever wasn't in the mood of joining the festivities would sure as hell also not be wandering empty streets at the beginning nightfall.

But his nose had lead him here without a doubt... The scent vivid and strong in his nostrils... So where...

 

But then he notices... And for a moment he freezes in utter bewilderment and disbelieve.

Right in the middle of the bridge, pressed up against the still warm stones is Rogue.

And his lips are glued to those of a complete stranger.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow...  
> Would you look at this, you've actually read 20 Chapters of this rollercoaster-ride of tragedy...  
> This story has accompanied me for so long now... it's the longest thing I've ever written in my life and I'm so grateful for all the support and sweet comments!  
> You folks are great! So have my sincerest gratitude for coming along for the ride!  
> Be safe and take care, everyone!
> 
> Dearest greetings,  
> TGA


	21. Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say, that the brighter the light, the darker will be its shadow.  
> And to him it's always been the other way around.  
> But what if a shadow was lost in the dark itself... How bright must a light burn, to save a shade in the night?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there and welcome back to:
> 
> TGA is a monster and can't stop hurting those two precious Dragon-Childs...
> 
> This time starring: Sting almost suffering a heart-attack  
> and Rogue, once again totally out of it, but minus all the adorability.
> 
> Special guest: strange guy, who doesn't even deserve a name and could drop dead somewhere in a corner.
> 
> That's it. Nothing more to see. Another Chapter full of fluffy fluffness and sleepy cuddles in the sun. Moving on...
> 
> Then again, wait, there is something else... Since I really want all of you to be safe and take good care of yourself,  
> I hereby let you know, that this Chapter contains less explicit non-conelements and referrences to date-rape.  
> So just be cautious, okay? Okay...

Fireworks are blooming in the night-sky; huge sparkling blossoms of iridescent, ephemeral colours and their light flickers over the two forms on the bridge, the stark contrast making silhouettes out of them and adding an almost surreal glow to Rogue's fair skin.

And he's still kissing a guy Sting has never seen before.

 

A brick could have fallen right onto his head and it wouldn't have hurt him worse or confused him any further; for the one locked in a tight embrace with another man is unmistakeably his lover – his lover, who's mouth is being claimed by another man's lips; his lover, who's being held by someone else; his lover who's moving against the guy with slow motions...

The White Dragon Slayer had already been up and about to jump at the pair in thoughtless, burning fury, but he manages to reign himself in in the last moment possibly.

Something wasn't right here...

 

The strange guy, who's hands are still wandering lecherously all over Rogue's body, while he seemingly devours his lips and every single inch of his pale skin, is a rather short, plump man in his late thirties with thinning hair at his temples and practically bald on top and even from more than one hundred feet away Sting can smell the odour of sweat, cheap cologne and neglect.

Rogue wouldn't let someone like that touch him... Hell, Rogue wouldn't betray him in the first place, now, would he?

 

So, to get a better grip on the whole fucked up situation, he remains where he is and strains his ears, for he's caught their voices before; but now he listens.

The stranger only produces ugly smacking sounds, as he licks at the soft lips, and if he was to utter something between the constant disgusting sucking, it's lost to the noises.

Rogue's voice, however, carries through and it's smaller and weaker than Sting had ever witnessed before.

 

“What's gotten into you?” the Shadow Dragon Slayer seems to stagger over every single word, but his tone holds urgency and accusal.

“Stop that, please! Why..” he breaks up feebly, but with a jerky shaking of head continues.

“Hey? Are you even listening? You drunk? Stopitt... I told'cha 'm not feeling well... Please... I'djust wanna go home...”

The way Rogue speaks with the fat guy seems oddly familiar and Sting can't help but wonder, if they know each other after all, but then he catches a small, pathetic whimper coming from his boyfriend, the pattern of speech foreign and strangely slurred. “I... I don't understan'... What's wrong with you? Stop that, 'm begging you... I... I'm feeling really sick... Just... hrmph...”

The Shadow Mage's next words get muffled by a wet mouth pressed to his own, before short, fleshy fingers actually grab his groin and the tubby form starts rubbing up against him.

And now, Sting can see it clearly... the rigid posture, the ceaseless attempts of avoiding the stranger's lips, the way he wriggles and wrestles, driven up against the bridge as he is – Rogue's whole demeanour speaks of defiance and decline.

 

By now it's perfectly obvious, that this isn't consensual, that the Shadow Dragon Slayer is trying to struggle against his offender, but somehow lacks the strength to do so.

Sluggish, strained motions, muted voice, his tongue heavy... and judged by the way, he's swaying, he is having trouble even keeping himself upright, while his speech is getting more washed out by the second.

 

And all of a sudden everything clicks into place...

 

For a moment, Sting feels the overwhelmingly strong urge to smash his head against the rough wall of a house close by for being _so fucking stupid... so fucking dense and slow,_ that he didn't get the whole situation earlier... if not at first glance, but for some reason he hadn't even thought about the possibility of someone trying to drug either of them up and assault them....

Far from it... he'd feared for the wine to be actually poisoned; had expected an act of revenge from Oak-Heart, who were famous for their expertise in venoms and other deadly concoctions, thus when the girl had warned him, he'd instantly guessed, that someone was out for their lives, not for their flesh...

 

By now the beefy, fumbling fingers of the guy have wandered beneath Rogue's shirt, trailing lower in an attempt to open his trousers and the Shadow Dragon Slayer is writhing as he tries to pry the wandering hands off.

His voice is thick, but still carries offense and reproach, and he raises it to his utmost capability: “What... I toldya to stoppit... Whad are you doi'.. Hey... Stop this... STING!!!!”

 

The White Dragon Slayer is surprised, that Rogue had noticed him in his dazed state, but even if his boyfriend hadn't called out to him, he couldn't have possibly watched the repulsive scene even one second longer.

Blind with wrath he yells at the stranger, while sprinting towards him at full speed, his eyes a dangerous sparkling azure, and every cell of his body prepared to burst into Dragon Force in a cataclysmic discharge of protectiveness and rage.

“Get your goddamn hands off him! Now! You disgusting fucker, I'll kill you!”

The outcry is paired with a dangerous growl, courtesy of his draconic heritage, that right now is surging through his chest like wild, raging waters and the tubby guy jumps at the sudden interruption.

 

Sting is still a good deal away from him, but he's convinced, that he could outrun the short man anytime and since the meagre magic aura he senses coming from the guy suggests only negligible combat-skills, he's also quite sure, that the other wouldn't have any nasty surprises for him up his sleeve.

 

Baldy seems to have noticed that, too...

Must have realized exactly how desperate and dangerous his situation has become all of a sudden; what with a pissed-off, overprotective Dragon Slayer running at him with murder in his eyes and a dazzling nimbus of purest light flaring around his muscular form.

It's obvious, that the waddling predator doesn't stand a chance against the almost unstoppable force of nature that is Sting, but both men seem to realize simultaneously, that there is one ace Baldy has left after all....

 

The second the man moves, Sting knows, that he has fucked up.

He'd let his emotions get the better of him, had announced his approach and thus wasted the element of surprise and now he'd not only given Baldy a bright, golden chance to escape...

 

Far worse.

Knowing he could neither escape nor fight Sting squarely, the pudgy guy resorts to something cowardly and vile...

 

Without warning, he charges with unexpected dexterity and, his hand spread out flat on Rogue's chest, he gives him a hard shove against the bannister of the bridge.

The push is so forceful, it sends the Shadow Dragon Slayer flying backwards, and the balustrade is just not quite high enough to break his fall...

Meanwhile, the only thing Sting can do is cry out in unspeakable horror, as he watches Rogue tilting backwards and his feet lift up from the ground.

Beneath them rushes the roaring river that provides the water for the lush gardens Crocus is famous for, and once Sting could have even named it, but right now his mind is completely blank, safe for one blood-curdling realisation:

 

He won't make it...

 

If no miracle was to happen, he wouldn't be able to get a hold of Rogue in time; meaning that his lover would fall thirty feet deep into shallow, raging waters littered with rocks and to his certain death.

But even though it's futile, he still runs faster than ever before; sprints as if he was going for Olympic Gold, feels his blood rushing through his veins as Dragon Force ignites around him in a halo of mesmerizing light; giving him strength, lending him wings - and still...

 

It's not enough.

 

The next moments will burn themselves forever into Sting's very core and even decades later, he will be able to recall them so vividly, his heart would start racing and throbbing, while searingly hot tears would well up in his eyes; uninvited and still impossible to hold back.

 

As if in slow-motion, he sees Rogue sinking further and further backwards, past the point of no return, as his centre of gravity changes, but as he's hovering just over the edge, only the tip of his heels still connected to the ground, his body suddenly seems to recall each and every damn fight, any training session and dangerous situation he'd ever been forced to undergo at his young age, and, sensing the mortal danger he's in, his fogged brain hands the reigns over to muscle memory.

Thus he forcefully shifts his weight forward as much as possible, throws every ounce of strength he has left into counterbalancing the rapid descent and tries pulling himself up with nothing but muscle-tension alone...

 

And still, it doesn't save him.

 

But it buys him a couple of seconds; as he remains in abeyance right over the ledge – body frozen between stand or drop; life or death.

A couple of invaluable seconds, that actually enable Sting to grab a hold of him, hand fisted into the fabric of his jacket and he prays to any god, even those that had spited and forsaken him for all his life, that it won't rip...

 

It doesn't.

 

And in the next moment Rogue's shoulder collides forcefully with his chest, as the Shadow Dragon Slayer gets flung back by the sheer inhuman, desperate force his boyfriend had put into yanking him back from the literal brink of death.

A second later his heavy, unsteady limbs are starting to refuse any obedience, so the momentum throws both of them off their feet; and while they are sent to the ground, Sting is already pulling his beloved tightly against his chest; arms wrapped around his form securely; hands shielding the raven head; and when his back hits the rough cobble stones, he barely even feels any pain.

 

Upon impact, the back of his head connects painfully violent with the kerb stone and for a moment everything backs away...

Then he clears the cobwebs with a harsh motion and allows himself to give in to the weakening wave of pure relief that washes over him; causing his hands to shake and his breathing to catch.

He's still panting heavily, heart threatening to jump right out of his throat, but then the second pulse thrumming against his ribcage grounds him and calls him back to the presence.

 

He fastens his hold around the still motionless form in his arms that is Rogue, and presses his face into the thick, black locks tickling his skin, all the while he inhales the familiar scent with a neediness that borders to the insane.

He can feel his lover trembling, but then again it could be him just as well, and he doesn't give a damn in the whole world, for the only thing that matters right now is the fact that the man he loves more than anything isn't skewered on sharp rocks or drowned by the current, but safely cradled against his chest and it's only belatedly, that he realises, he's whispering:

“It's okay, I've got you...” against his crown over and over again.

If his words are actually meant for Rogue or just muttered to calm his own stuttering heart, he'll never know and he doesn't dwell on it either.

 

Of course the plump guy is nowhere to be seen any more by now, has made his escape with surprising swiftness and stealth, but the regret Sting feels is barely even there – the fury and the urge to tear out his flabby, double-chinned throat, however, remain; fiery and sharp as the sensation burrows itself deep into his memory.

A dragon never forgets.

And once the thing most precious to him had been stolen or hurt, he doesn't forgive, either.

 

But right now his mind is solely trained on Rogue and the almost unbearable urge to make sure, that he's unharmed.

His lover is still bundled up against him, fine shivers wrecking his form, but when Sting tries pressing a gentle kiss to his hair, quietly inquiring if he was okay, the Shadow Dragon Slayer jerks back with a surprising vehemence, and quickly scrambles away from the blonde.

 

“Don't!” he snarls, face contorted in open repulse. “Don'tcha dare touch me...”

He trips over nearly every syllable, the words slurred and lazy, but the animosity in his voice is clear and sharp as a knife.

 

It's a feeling Sting can sympathise with and telling from the glassy, unfocused eyes, he's certain, that his boyfriend hadn't even grasped just what had happened within the last few moments; probably still deemed himself assaulted and under attack, thus the blonde backs away slowly; offering safety, offering space.

 

“Hey... shh...” he soothes, words barely more than a whisper.

“It's fine... It's fine... You're safe... It's just me...”

Rogue, however, shows no sign of relaxation, body rigid and tense, as he inquires:

“What the fuck's wrong with you? Why'dcha do this?”

 

The White Dragon Slayer is at a loss for words, uncertain if his boyfriend was still mistaking him for the assailant or if he was actually accusing him of interrupting the repulsive make-out-session, but he knows best, how such an experience could fuck with one's mind – even with no drugs from hell involved - thus he retreats a little bit further, before asking gently:

“Rogue... love... calm down! What are you talking about? Did I hurt you somehow? Are you okay?”

 

Whereas, however, the dark haired boy spits:

“Dontcha dare playin' dumb with me... I toldcha 'm not 'kay... Why you listening now? You sober'd up?”

With some effort he hoists himself up, swaying dangerously on unstable feet, muttering:

“Y' know what? I don' care... 'm headin' home.”

 

With staggering steps Rogue stumbles past him, but his feeble limbs buckle beneath his weight almost instantly and only thanks to his quick reflexes does Sting manages to catch him, before his unsteady form hits the ground hard.

The reaction comes promptly and is more violent than the blonde would have ever imagined, for the Shadow Dragon Slayer flinches back as if being singed, while he pushed his lover away with surprising strength, yelling: “Back off! Don'tcha touch me!”

and this time, Sting is really lost.

 

“Hey, shhh... Easy there, my love...” he whispers, hands raised in a placatory gesture, “It's over! The guy's gone. It's just me...”, but to his utter bewilderment, Rogue hisses:

“You don't say... “

He can see fear, confusion, repulsion and pain swirling through the glazed, deep red eyes; a threatening glitter of rage igniting in their middle, whenever he leans towards the distressed boy even the slightest bit and right now, he has no idea how to handle the situation.

 

To make matters worse, the bridge and the adjacent square are starting to fill up with people, for the fire-works are over and the main festivities at the plaza have come to an end, and soon enough the two of them are surrounded by a merry, somewhat rowdy crowd.

 

Of course the sudden onslaught of noises, scents, presences and physical closeness of strangers does nothing to calm Rogue down; rather pushes him further towards an all-out panic-attack, and the blonde knows, he has to get them out of here, to some place quiet, preferably their inn, somewhere safe, where he can finally hush his upset boyfriend and have him sleep off the damn drugs.

But the Shadow Dragon Slayer still doesn't allow him to come closer, tries getting to his feet a second time, only to collapse right back.

And even though Sting had planned on not intervening in an attempt to demonstrate, he wasn't going to go against his lover's will, he still has to dart forward, to keep Rogue from crashing head first into the harsh-edged cobble stones.

Once again he tries talking him down, coaxes and soothes... But to no avail.

By now his lover is struggling so severely against his hold – a hold he reluctantly maintains to keep the Shadow Dragon Slayer from hurting himself accidentally – people are starting to look at them oddly.

 

Sting is getting more and more anxious, what with the strange, almost accusing gazes he earns, and for a moment he actually considers knocking Rogue out himself to get him to their inn without further ado, but then he refrains from it.

His lover was already confused, dazed and freaked out of his wits; was somehow repulsing his own boyfriend for whatever reasons and he's certain, that actually attacking him now wouldn't help matters in the least.

Besides; judging from the way his clouded, drooping eyes seem to be getting heavier by the second, it was only a matter of minutes until he would pass out from the drugs, anyway.

 

But until then, Sting had to make sure, he maintained the firm hold onto his beloved, even though seeing him panic from the contact - and knowing fully well, he was the cause of his distress - hurt him almost physically.

The phases in which Rogue's head would start sagging against his chest, his body finally relaxing, keep growing longer and more frequent, but every time Sting is certain, that he has finally fallen asleep for good, his lover would start pushing him away, as soon as he'd try to gather his motionless form into his arms.

 

“Goddammit, toldcha to leave me alone! Getchour han's off me...” and for the umpteenth time the White Dragon Slayer whispers soft, soothing words into Rogue's hair...

“Hey... hush... I know you're upset... okay... And I'm sorry I have to latch onto you, but I promise I won't hurt you! Rogue, love, please... I just wanna take you to the inn! It isn't far from here... The keys are right there in your pocket...”

He gets interrupted by an angry fist, that comes flying right at his chin; a fist that he catches easily, what with the slow, boneless way his lover moves, but the punch still holds an unexpected amount of strength...

And even though the hit misses, it still hurts like hell...

 

“Let go! Don'tcha dare...” suddenly Rogue gets interrupted by a man passing by; a man that eyes Sting with open distrust, asking wearily:

“Hey, what's going on here? Is he okay?” while the blonde hurries to answer:

“Yeah, we're good... He just drank a bit too much... I'm taking him home, once I've made sure, he won't puke all over me...”

The guy still examines them suspiciously and for a second Sting feels his throat tightening, but then he just shrugs and is on his way, leaving the White Dragon Slayer behind with hot relief spreading through his guts.

The feeling, however, doesn't last too long.

For as soon as he realises, just how very easily he could get the guy off his back, fury starts to build in his chest.

Of course the man backing off and leaving them alone now was nothing but a lucky circumstance, for Sting obviously didn't entertain vile, ulterior motives, but that the guy couldn't have possibly known...

 

He tries convincing himself, that, since he and Rogue were of the same age and he probably didn't look all that intimidating himself, the man let it slide, but would have definitely intervened, if a middle-aged, bald guy had tried to haul off a struggling, obviously drugged up minor...

But somehow he doubts it.

And the realisation, that probably non of all those bystanders would have helped Rogue, even if he'd been calling out, makes him sick with rage and dread.

 

Meanwhile the weight in his arms is getting heavier as his lover's struggling weakens, but when Sting tries to carefully lift him up, he notices tears glittering on his cheeks, the sight more painful to him than anything else within the past fifteen minutes of constant fighting...

So when Rogue whispers:

“Please... don't. Don't, I'm begging you...” with cracking voice, he comes dangerously close to tearing up just as well.

 

Rogue never pleaded,

Rogue never begged.

 

And seeing him so broken, so vulnerable, desperate and small, pains Sting just as much.

So when his head finally sinks limply against his shoulder, a last mumbled: “Please... don't...” dying on his lips he can't hold back the sobs, either.

Rogue is out like a light within seconds, his rigid body finally relaxing, and Sting's tears fall onto the thick, black strands obscuring his eyes.

 

Pressing his quaking lips gently to the pale forehead, the White Dragon Slayer only mutters:

“It's alright, my love... just sleep... Everything's gonna be okay tomorrow. I promise. You're safe. And I won't let anyone lay a single finger on you ever again.”

Then he gets to his feet, Rogue's limp form cradled securely against his chest, and heads back towards their inn as quickly as possible, mindful not to joggle his lover more than absolutely necessary.

The short walk seems to drag on forever...

 

The sharp clicking of their door falling shut behind him is music to Sting's ears and the sight of the joined bed the most welcoming thing he'd seen all day.

Leaving the room earlier that evening now seems like a different life time – the soft smile tugging at Rogue's lips then, the way the sinking sun set his eyes aglow, the honest, loving kiss he'd pressed to the bridge of his nose – all those things keep-sakes of carefree moments spent in blissful ignorance of what lay ahead of them.

Watching his lover's face now – his features tense and troubled even in sleep – Sting feels an eery emptiness spreading in his chest, as if he'd burned out all his emotions in the course of this godforsaken night, leaving behind nothing but bone-deep weariness and exhaustion.

 

His arms screech in protest, muscles burning from the strain of carrying his boyfriend all the way here, but he forces them into obedience one last time, as he eases Rogue down as gently as possible.

The Shadow Dragon Slayer stirs, his long, dark lashes starting to flutter, but as soon as the light hits his dilated eyes, his lids slide back down, and he turns around with a small whine.

Sting runs a gentle hand through his hair, brushes the unruly bangs out of his face with slow, feather-light touches – but he still flinches and shies away.

 

Was that how Rogue always felt during one of his own frequent fits of mind-eating, white-hot panic, when any sense of self or reason was lost to horrible flashbacks and even the familiar presence of his beloved proved as too much to handle?

Sting is rendered speechless, realising how often his partner must have endured this crushing helplessness and pain without ever breathing a single word about it...

Right now he's racking his brain, trying to remember, how Rogue handled those situations, but the only thing he's able to recall is the sensation of unconditional safety and acceptance radiating off the Shadow Dragon Slayer; a feeling that never failed to sooth and call him back to the present.

 

But all he could do for him right now is watch over his sleep and provide silent comfort, everything else would have to wait until Rogue woke up.

For a second Sting debates taking off his boyfriend's clothes for the sake of snugness, but then he thinks better of it... Chances were, that Rogue would come to and freak out and that was something neither of them needed right now.

Thus the blonde quickly changes into something loose and well-worn himself, before carefully sliding between his sheets; always mindful not to disturb the motionless form beside him.

He aches to pull his sleeping lover close, the urge to have him near and feel him breath desperate and painful in his chest after almost losing him, but he isn't sure, if that was a such bright idea right now...

 

But he can't keep himself from reaching out for his wrist cautiously, the anxiousness only letting up, when Rogue's heart-beat thrums steadily beneath his fingers.

The the rhythm, however, somehow seems unfamiliar; the erratic stuttering foreign and troubling to Sting, as his own heart-beat for once is unable to adapt.

So he just lies awake in the dark and listens; spends the better part of the night with his trembling fingers refusing to let go of the cold, limp hand in their grasp, and tries his hardest not to break.

 

It is only when he watches the moonlight paint surreal, fleeting patterns on Rogue's pale, still face that he notices, he'd already reached out to brush away the shadows dancing over the ivory skin.

His hand chases the elusive, ephemeral shimmers of purest silver as they wash out the beloved, chiselled contours of the Shadow Dragon Slayer in cascades of fading quicksilver, while stark shadows; restless remains of the other's magic, seem to mingle with it in a stunning embrace of darkness and light.  
For a second he hesitates, then he guides a small portion of his own magic into his fingertips; sparks casting a soft, warm glow over the unconscious figure beside him, then he lets his touch ghost over one of the stray tendrils of ever-shifting shades.  
At first nothing happens, then the small wisp of blackness has wrapped itself firmly around his hand in an attempt to pull him in; the sensation endlessly familiar and painfully dear.  
Sting complies with caution; let's the opposite magic pull him down hesitantly, and when his knuckles finally touch Rogue's cool, soft skin, something deep down his guts fizzles quietly as it sparks to life.

This time his lover doesn't draw back, allows Sting to gently stroke his cheek and kiss the now relaxed brow with abandon.

Rogue whines quietly in his sleep and leans into the touch - tension slowly fading from his features – and when a low sigh leaves his softly parted lips, Sting realises, that at some point, unbeknownst to either of them, their hearts had started beating as one again.

After that he's asleep within minutes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there we go, another Chapter of angst and pain done.  
> Hereby I officially found "GiveStingABreak2k18"...
> 
> And now excuse me, for I have to finish the next huge clusterfuck of angst and pain, that is Chapter 22.
> 
> Thanks for reading and stay safe!


	22. Written in heart blood, carved in stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The earth is crumbling, the heavens collapse, and in mids all this downfall we stand and cling to each other, while the currents of fate wash us away, and any ground beneath our feet is lost.  
> So I'll be your anchor and you'll be my lifeline, so that within the chaos we can make us whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there everyone,
> 
> and here we are again, back with part 22 of Sting's and Rogue's never ending nightmare, where TGA uses every syllable to its utmost capability when it comes to hurting the poor SaberBabes...
> 
> And boy, did I suffer writing this (well except for the last few lines *if you know what I mean*).  
> Someone go and safe the precious children from authors such as me... I mean it.
> 
> This time trigger warning includes: non.con elements (duh..), k.o-drugs and a little bit of lemon (nothing explicit) at the end. 
> 
> So have fun, stay save and bask in my endless gratitude, for dealing with this angsty fucker, that I call a fanfic.

Sting wakes to sunlight tickling his skin with bright, gentle hands and for a blissfully amnesiac moment he feels all warm and content. Then everything falls back into place.

 

Next to him Rogue is still out cold, hasn't moved so much as a single inch and with his breathing coming a bit too lazy and shallow for comfort, one could easily think he'd died in his sleep.

But Sting can sense his pulse, as his hand still cradles the slender wrist gently, and when he moves closer to carefully press a soft kiss right between his eyebrows, he finds the pale skin warm and inviting beneath his lips.

The tender gesture, however, causes no reaction whatsoever, as the Shadow Dragon Slayer remains dead to the world; the only sign of life the rapid twitching of his dark-ringed, heavy lidded eyes.

 

He wasn't the lightest sleeper by nature, but usually Sting could easily rouse him with a couple of sweet kisses or a gentle hand running through his hair.

So the fact that his partner still wouldn't show even the tiniest hints of waking is a sickening reminder, that whatever substance the asshole had slipped him must have been one hell of a drug.

Rogue would probably feel like death on a cracker, once he had come to... He already pities him now...

 

It actually takes another two hours until the Shadow Dragon Slayer finally starts stirring, a miserable whine leaving his lips, before he rolls around and buries his head in the pillows with a string of muffled obscenities.

The grumpy behaviour is so familiar, so unmistakably “Rogue”, it could be called adorable if the circumstances were different, and yet this small semblance of normality eases some of the anxiousness grinding in Sting's guts.

He has showered by now and is kicked back on his side of the bed comfortably, the book on his stomach untouched as he couldn't take his eyes off his boyfriend's quiet, motionless form.

 

Seeing him finally wake now, has both stone-cold concern and hot relief churning inside his guts, and while Rogue keeps grumbling unintelligible curses into the white safety of the sheets, the White Dragon Slayer watches fidgeting with impatience.

He somehow manages to extract his voice from the hidden cavern in his chest it had seemingly retreated to, as he asks cautiously:

“Hey there... how are you feeling?”

 

For a second he's met with nothing but silence, then Rogue rolls onto his back, with one hand resting limply across his brow, and spits an ill-graced: “Rotten...” before clenching his eyes shut with another low groan.

Looking him over lovingly, Sting debates on how to proceed for a moment, then decides, that the basic needs took priority.

He could start inquiring what exactly his partner remembered from the previous night once he'd seen to it, that his boyfriend felt less like roadkill and more like an actual human being.

 

So he carefully pours a glass of water and holds it out for Rogue to take, adding quietly: “Here, drink something... There's a couple of painkillers right beside you, in case you need them... Or do you...”

 

“Sting...” Suddenly he gets interrupted by an unnerved, weary sigh.

“Stop this... You don't have to go full worried-boyfriend-mode on me now, you know? It's not like I'm gonna leave you or anything... It's just...”

The Shadow Dragon Slayer exhales forcefully once again, shooting the blonde a mildly annoyed, tired glance, before he rubs his temples and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Just admit that you drank yourself stupid last night and got horny as fuck for some reason, and I'll let it slide... Okay? I'm sorry I freaked out like that, this was uncalled for, but somehow the wine didn't agree with me and I... I don't know... Almost being pushed off that bridge really made me snap... So let's just say we're even and forget the whole thing. But I swear to god, if you ever do that again, I'll seriously kick your ass...”

 

“Rogue...” Sting looks at him, face rapidly paling, eyes wide and lips quivering in utter confusion, while his voice drops to a hoarse whisper “Do what exactly? What are you talking about?”

The Shadow Mage sends him a nasty glare, huffing exasperatedly:

“Seriously? Are you playing dumb with me now or did you really get so shit-faced, you don't remember...

The whole fucking scene on the bridge?”

 

The White Dragon Slayer feels the ground shift beneath him, rising anger giving way to the sickening sensation of free fall, as his stomach drops and everything seemingly starts spinning; thoughts racing, heart pounding as he retorts agitatedly:

“Well, excuse me, but I think the one who's memory might be a bit juggled due to inebriation might rather be you... What is it that you wanna hear from me? Sorry for interrupting while that fucking disgusting guy was all over your face? You called out to me for help!”

And now it's Rogue, who's face falls in bewilderment, while his eyes go wide in fear...

“Sting...” suddenly his voice has become very small and very afraid, “What guy? It's been only the two of us there...”

All of a sudden everything and nothing makes sense at the same moment, for mistaking Baldy for his lover would definitely explain Rogue's behaviour, but then again how could that possibly be...

 

“But you called out to me, didn't you?” he repeats desperately, watching his lover's features crumble in increasing confusion, his gaze darting and scared, before he answers:

“I was _yelling_ at you... Because you just wouldn't listen to reason... you were incredibly horny, and I asked you to stop again and again, because I was getting really dizzy... and...” his tone grows more and more pleading, voice becoming rough and quiet with pent-up shock, before he continues:

“... and you only laughed and went straight for my dick, so I yelled at you... We struggled, you pushed me and I almost fell... And I think, this had finally sobered you up, because suddenly you were all concerned and careful and... Are you really trying to talk your way out of this by making stuff up, now?”

he trails off weakly, eyes squeezed shut, his whole figure a painstaking display of distress and disarray.

 

Meanwhile, Sting feels, as if someone had just hit him in the face with a sledge-hammer.

He just doesn't understand.... How could Rogue possibly think, that his own boyfriend had assaulted him, violated his trust and on top of it all almost pushed him off a damn bridge?

Then, however, he remembers the weird magical aura coming from the guy; the sensation too weak for actual combat-magic, yet somehow concerning in its foreignness... So what he had sensed must have been some kind of manipulation-magic... probably not even a strong or very sophisticated one, but with his lover's mind getting increasingly clouded and hazy, it must have been easy to mess with him...

So this was why Rogue hadn't fought the guy with more insistence, had rather pleaded with him and spoken in a voice so very familiar and soft...

The realisation makes him sick to his stomach, but at the same time, it has a bold, desperate idea spark through his head...

 

Sure, Rogue was pissed-off and disappointed with him, but he seemed to cope with the whole thing much better than Sting had ever imagined... So maybe it was the best for him to just take the blame and spare his beloved the vile truth and memories that would haunt him.

He might be mad at him a little longer, might need him to prove he still deserved his trust, but didn't Rogue state himself, that he was willing to let it slip?

It would be the very first time the blonde would have ever lied to his other half and this fact is the only thing that has Sting hesitating...

They've never been anything but completely honest with one another, it was one of the unwritten fundamental rules their bond had been built on, but then again, he couldn't possibly bear the warm sparkle in Rogue's eyes ever to be tarnished, could never allow him to feel even a small proportion of what he himself had to go through... No, for the sake of his lover's soundness, he would actually take his rage and disdain upon himself.

 

Sting is already opening his mouth to admit everything, when he realizes, that Rogue is suddenly completely petrified, all colour rapidly draining from his face, as his eyes widen and become unfocused.

Then a wild trembling takes a hold if his body.

For a second he looks at his partner, shaking lips whispering: “Oh my god...” in a voice so hollow and shell-shocked, Sting doesn't even recognize it any more, before he jumps up and flees into the small bathroom, door banging shut behind him, and in the next second the blonde can hear him throwing up violently.

 

“God fucking dammit...” The White Dragon Slayer curses wearily, as he buries his face in his hands, fingers fisting into his messy hair and he has to resist the urge to pull at the unruly strands until he'd draw blood... Why... just why did things always have to turn out like that?

 

Questioning the lazily constructed, fragile fabric of artificial memories the fuck-tard had embedded in Rogue's mind, had obviously broken the spell and now the damage was done.

For a moment he feels like curling up in a corner to cry, but then he puts on a brave facade and takes some deep breaths... Right now wasn't the time for him to break. Right now, this wasn't about him, this was about the one person he loved more than his life, and he was suffering.

 

In the meantime the hard retching had stopped, as well as the sound of running water, that seemed to go on forever and Sting waits by the door impatiently, unwilling to intrude on Rogue right now, but also worried almost senseless.

So when the silence stretches on, he knocks quietly, asking for permission to enter.

His beloved doesn't even bother raising his voice, knowing perfectly well the White Dragon Slayer would catch even the suffocated, toneless “Yeah...” effortlessly, and remains on the floor, pressed up against the wall.

This is how the blonde finds him; knees drawn to his chest, head resting in his hands, and even from across the room he can see he's shaking.

The sight almost breaks Sting's heart, hurts him with a sharp, merciless pang of helplessness and despair, and his voice comes strained and heavy with held-back tears, as he asks lowly:

“Hey... is it okay, if I come closer?”

Hands raised carefully, his whole demeanour emits nothing but caution and concern, and Rogue actually huffs a mirthless laughter, the sound unsettling in its abrasiveness and cold, but his speech comes small and pleading: “Of course... I... I'm sorry... I just... Sorry... Really...”

 

So the blonde approaches him carefully, still mindful to give his upset lover space, but then the Shadow Dragon Slayer looks up, red eyes begging and lost, whispering: “Stay, please...“

And Sting understands.

 

He drops down carefully, slowly scoots closer and - in the most cautious way eases - his arms around Rogue's still quaking form, as he pulls him in. For a second he fears resistance, but then his lover sinks into his embrace, rests his head in the crook of the blonde's neck and leans heavily against him, while he shakes, and shakes and shakes.

The White Dragon Slayer rests his chin lightly on top of his crown, hands running over the tense back in ceaseless gentle circles, and he does, what Rogue always did, when-ever he had a break-down himself: he rocks him slowly, while whispering soft words of comfort against his hair.

He's surprised, that there are no tears, but then again, what did it matter... he can feel, that the Shadow Dragon Slayer upset beyond words, what with the way his heart stutters and his limbs keep on quivering.

 

“I really wanna say: It's fine, everything's alright.... But we both know, that's not true...” Sting mutters quietly, and he feels a tiny nod against his shoulder, encouraging him to continue:

“But it's over, okay? You're safe. I've got you... I've got you and I'm not going anywhere... I promise.. No one is ever gonna do something like that to you again, you hear me?”

Another tiny nod, then Rogue nuzzles against his neck, as he presses himself closer, a little sigh leaving his lips, when Sting fastens his hold around him and gently kisses the pitch-black crown.

“Sting?” he inquires, the smooth voice cracking and brittle, and the blonde simply breathes a low “Hmm?” into the silken tresses, he's buried his nose in.

“I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry for thinking for even a second, you'd ever do something like that. I... I've no idea what came over me... I...” he trails of weakly, slowly shaking his head, and the White Dragon Slayer can sense the shame and the self-reproach in his voice.

Realising, that Rogue was seemingly far more upset about the way he'd reacted to his lover, than what the fat guy had done to him has his heart clench painfully, and he hurries, to ease at least this burden off of his still trembling shoulders.

 

“It's fine, okay? The bastard had drugged you up and fucked with your head, you could barely even stand, let alone think straight...”

“I punched you!” Rogue intervenes desperately, while his voice hitches and snaps.

“First of all, that was barely even a punch to begin with... I could easily grab your hand and avoid it, and secondly, as you may remember, I've once send you flying all across our room and into the wall... You cracked your head open, and didn't even flinch... So, if anything, we're even, at best...”

“I should have trusted you...” comes the quiet interruption; heavy with disdain and remorse.

“Rogue, love...” the blonde continues to sooth.

“Look, you thought I'd tried taken advantage of your situation, you almost fell to your death and someone you'd deemed trustworthy had just acted against your consent, so you had every right to be weary of me and pissed.

Please believe me, that I'm not mad or anything. I'm just so incredibly glad, that I managed to find you...

And by the way, if anything, it's rather me, who should apologize, for acting like a complete idiot. It's my fault, he almost pushed you off the bridge. If I hadn't jumped at him like a complete moron, he wouldn't have shoved you...”

For a second his voice staggers and snaps, as the after-image of the mindless, all-encompassing terror of seeing Rogue fall ghosts through his blood, causing him to pull his lover closer and press another firm kiss to his temple.

Then he whispers: “I thought, I'd lost you for good... I was certain, I wouldn't be able to catch you in time...” and his voice gets thick and chaffing with raw emotion.

The Shadow Dragon Slayer draws back, hands reaching out to cradle Sting's face, and he brings their foreheads together gently, while manoeuvring himself into his lap.

 

“I'm right here, my love...” His voice is still unsteady and his hands quiver so bad, Sting has to reach out for his wrists to steady them, but the sentiment is there.

“I'm right here, thanks to you. So thanks for coming. Thanks for saving my stupid, useless ass...” After that Rogue falls silent, lets Sting pull him closer and buries his face in the wordless safety of his shoulder.

 

An hour later the two of them have huddled together on the bed, Sting leaning against the head-board, while Rogue has curled up next to him, head resting in the blonde's lap.

The shaking has subsided, but he's still eerily quiet, his tired eyes lingering on some spot on the wall without actually seeing, and his thoughts are an endless, whirling mess behind his furrowed brow.

Sting had wrapped his arms around his shoulders, his fingers ceaselessly carding through the raven tresses with calm, gentle motions and he desperately tries to guess, just what exactly was running through the troubled head beneath his hands by focusing on the stuttering heart-beat and the staggering breathing.

 

They lay like that for quite some time; two forms, once again ground into the dust by their merciless fate, and now trying to pick up the pieces by seeking solace in one another... It's the only comfort either had ever gotten the chance to experience, and by now, after almost a whole decade of ceaseless turmoil, tragedy, violence and pain it's the only kind of comfort both of them still allow.

And yet...

 

“Stop that...” Rogue suddenly whispers without a cue, and Sting hurries to withdraw his warm fingers from the soft strands they'd been carding through ardently, convinced, that the intimate physical contact proved too much to handle for his boyfriend after all; apologizing with a small, strained voice, heavy with heart-ache.

The Shadow Dragon Slayer, however, chases after the touch immediately, while he nudges the blonde's stomach with his head.

“No, not that, dummy...” he protests, pressing his crown against Sting's retreating hands, urging him to continue the soothing caresses in an open pursuit of comfort and warmth.

 

Sting, however, is, once again, at a total loss... thus he brushes the ebony bangs out of Rogue's haunted eyes, breathing: “Okay... what's the matter, then?” allowing his fingertips to ghost over the pale, soft skin in a meagre attempt of offering as much comfort as his lover could take from his paltry gestures.

“Stop worrying about me... I can practically hear your gears grinding with concern... and I... I admit, that I'd be lying, if I said, I was fine, but... Please don't get so worked up about me...”

The blonde stares at him with open disbelief, strokes his cheek achingly gentle, retorting: “Look who's talking... If it isn't Mr. worry-wart boyfriend number one... Allow me, to hand your words right back to you: It is my decision, whether I'll concern myself with your well-being...”

A tiny smile graces Rogue's features, as he mutters a quiet: “Touché...” before snuggling closer against Sting.

“No,” he continues with a small sigh, “in all seriousness... this was nothing compared to what you had to go through... So how could I ever whine about something so insignificant in front of you of all people?”

 

“Oh, Rogue...” Sting shakes his head slowly, his voice gentle, warm and the tiniest bit chiding, “There is no better or worse when it comes to this... It's always equally repulsive and horrible... Everyone just deals with it differently.”

“Yeah, right...” the Shadow Dragon Slayer huffs joylessly, “as if you could compare one ugly, desperate guy trying to get it on with me with what Jiemma had put you through all those years... I'm telling you, I'll be okay...”

The blonde plays with his thick locks thoughtlessly for a moment, before murmuring:

“It's not a competition, my love... And just because that bastard has fucked me up plenty, it doesn't mean that what happened to you is negligible or that you're somehow not allowed to feel awful and tell me just that...”

Rogue rolls onto his back, so that he can look at Sting's face, a warm shimmer of endless gratitude and affection in his eyes and he reaches out to let his knuckles trail over his lover's cheek with the most loving touch, whispering: “Okay... But really, I probably don't feel half as bad as you're thinking. It's just... Everything seems so surreal, so not-quite-right... It's as if I was moving alongside reality, but still not completely in it, displaced if only by a few inches... As if I wasn't really myself... And that makes me queasy and somehow sick. Does this make any sense to you? Maybe it's the aftermath of the drugs...”

 

The White Dragon Slayer, however, remembering the sensation of the ground giving way beneath him, the unease grinding deep down his guts, the constant questioning if what had happened could even be real, only nods, as his throat gets tight.

“It'll fade...” he only mumbles, as soon as he's forced his vocal cords into obedience. “You'll feel a bit more like yourself tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that...”

Until you've forgotten, what you used to feel like before, when you were still blissfully whole and unstained.

He doesn't word his last thought aloud; rather bends down and presses a chaste kiss to the tip of Rogue's nose, grateful beyond imagination, that at the very least his beloved didn't flinch from the touch and refuse him.

 

“I just wished, I could have spared you from something like this... I'm so sorry for letting that happen...”

Red eyes scrutinize his face pensively for a moment that seemed to drag on forever.

“You were going to take the blame upon yourself...” A statement, not a question, and Rogue doesn't seem to expect an answer, for Sting's sudden silence tells him everything he needs to know.

The way, the blonde's face falters, however, stings harshly, so he rubs his head affectionately against his stomach, adding:

“It's okay, I would have done the exact same thing. But let me tell you, even though the feeling of this fucker's tongue in my mouth won't make it into the top ten memories I'd like to see in front of my eyes when I kick the bucket, I'm genuinely glad, I remembered everything.

I'd rather deal with those scenes, knowing you had nothing to do with it, than having even the smallest reason to distrust you.”

His hand is still cradling Sting's cheek and as he speaks, the White Dragon Slayer starts placing slow, lingering kisses all over his palm.

Gazing at him with his heart in his eyes, Rogue continues:

“Besides, I'm really glad, that at least you didn't get afflicted with the drugs...”

 

“Actually...”, the blonde intervenes, “...the guy tried pulling the same stunt on me, I was just lucky and got a warning in advance.”

The Shadow Dragon Slayer's already almost translucent skin pales even more, as a reminiscence of the hard tremors returns and his voice comes rough and raw, as he asks: “What? But... how's that possible... Who...”

“The girl.” Sting answers quietly, while he pulls Rogue closer and runs his hands up and down shoulders, arms and waist of his curled up form in an attempt to ease the trembling. “She remembered me... It was the girl from the farm with the wolf-rat's nest in the cellar.”

“No way!” Rogue breaths absolutely dumbfounded, before the blonde continues:

“And she felt so sorry, for handing you that wine... The bastard had threatened her sickly mother... But as soon as she recognized me, she actually took on that risk. Please, don't blame her, she's a sweet girl...”

“I'm not mad at her!” the Shadow Dragon Slayer sighs wearily. “I'm relieved, that she'd warned you, but I can't shake the feeling that this wasn't just the act of some batshit-insane, infatuated old creep who'd been after our asses for god knows how long.”

 

Here Sting falls silent, for he'd already come to the exact same conclusion.

If Baldy had really only wanted to have his way with either of them, then why drug them up simultaneously?

And why not wait, until Rogue had passed out before assaulting him?

Why making him think, he was in in boyfriend's company and then behaving so plump and unsettling, it caused his victim to struggle this severely?

He could have easily steered Rogue anywhere he'd wanted to have him and then wait for him to lose consciousness, before actually getting it one, but instead it's almost, as if he'd wanted to make certain, the Shadow Dragon Slayer got as upset and panicked as possible.

Something was sickeningly wrong with the whole thing and the more Sting thought about it, the more questions arose.

Like: What about him? If he'd actually imbibed the wine, would it have only knocked him unconscious, so that he was out of the picture and couldn't save his beloved? Or would he have deemed himself abused by the only person in the world he'd trust with his life? Did Baldy actually plan on getting his hands on both of them at the same time?

He probably did... Because they stuck together almost every time when in public, but that special evening they had surprisingly split up, due to Jason... And still...

He can sense it nearly palpably, the vile, unknown source of danger, that has suddenly appeared dangling above their heads...

 

So, even though he'd rather shield Rogue from his suspicions, he knows perfectly well, that he has to warn him about the potential threat that might be coming their way.

And thus he shares his ponderings with him, his hands never once breaking contact, as they keep on comforting and caressing, until the two of them just stare at one another, red eyes wide in horror, cerulean ones nothing but exhausted and weary.

“Why...” the Shadow Mage mutters tiredly. “Why do these things keep on happening? Can't we just be happy for once? Can't we just be normal teens every once in a while?”

He trails off with a wet, choked sob, and Sting hurries to slide down and pull his once again quaking lover against his chest, whispering: “Because there are some vile, horrible people out there... and we have no one else to turn to.”

 

A certain name crosses his mind, causing his throat to tighten and his muscles to lock up, but soon enough Rogue has eased his arms around his back, and while pressing himself closer against Sting's chest, he also pulls him in, until they're curled perfectly around one another and only then does the tension slowly fade.

 

The Shadow Dragon Slayer's slowly roaming hands trail lightly over Sting's back, until they graze the back pocket of his trousers and suddenly he remembers something. It wasn't their birthday, but today was as good as any day and right now the moment seemed achingly fitting.

Thus he kisses the pale, cold lips with utmost caution, whispering:

“We've got us. That's what counts. And if it's gonna be us against the world, then so be it. I trust you. Absolutely. And I love you so, so much...” He isn't blushing even half as bad, as he'd expected, for in this very moment his words are nothing but honest and an expression of what he truly feels.

“So, I want you to have this as a small reminder of it.”

Seemingly out of nowhere he conjures up a pendant of brilliant, deep black; a stone shaped almost like the one in his earring, but as soon as the light gets caught in its mesmerizing depths, a spark of warm, bright red blooms in the centre.

 

Rogue watches it spin in awe, before Sting gently eases the leather-band around his neck, pressing a soft kiss to the stone and letting it slide beneath his lover's shirt.

“From now on, this will be the first thing I'll do, whenever we meet, so that you know it's really me...”

He waits for an answer nervously, as Rogue pulls the necklace back out, to look at the pendant again, holding it against the sun to admire the illuminated core, whispering:

“That's a Dragon Tear, isn't it? They're extremely rare and almost indestructible... Must have cost you a fortune...”

“So you like it?” the blonde inquires breathlessly.

“It's beautiful...”

A look at his eyes, and Sting can tell, he means it.

 

Threading his fingers through the golden strands, Rogue takes a careful hold of his lover's face, whispering: “No matter what, as long as I've got you, I wont cave. Us against the world? Fine by me. Because I trust you, and because I, too, love you so, so much.”

And suddenly he presses his lips to Sting's with a desperate, wild longing and he kisses him into breathlessness with a never-known urgency.

And even when hot, salty tears find their way onto their tongues, they don't break apart, only deepen their connection and pull each other in, a seemingly endless string of “I love you...” shared between their entwined bodies, as skin finds skin.

 

They pant it against the other's neck with increasing neediness, cheeks damp with tears, as they move against each other, always searching, always finding, always craving more of the other...

Their voices become hoarse, breaths fleeting with desire, as their hands seemingly try to claim each and every inch of the immaculate body of their other half.

It's almost a dance; two bodies gravitating around their middle, and neither of them has ever seen the other more beautiful, than in those few moments of never-known ecstasy as they both reach their climax and moan their vow a last time, as they shudder against one another.

 

And for a blissful, heartfelt moment, the world actually backs away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, another Chapter done, another step closer to the hapy ending.  
> There will be one. The sap-lover within me is positive, that it can knock-out the angst-fabricant in a moment of carelessness and quickly write an ending with all the fluff in the world.  
> Keep fingers crossed!
> 
> Stay safe and dearest greetings!  
> TGA


	23. ... und der Mond in Deinen Augen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We brave the darkness and dare the blight, so that in radiance, we finally will bloom.  
> And while my skin drinks up the sunlight, yours takes in the moon, so that when we find one another we'll burst into light and the sparks will forever linger somewhere deep in our hearts.  
> In radiance, we will finally break free...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there everyone and sorry for taking so fricking long to update, but stupid me did, what our Mommas had always warned us never to do...  
> Clumsy me cleaned the blender while it was still plugged in and efficiently shredded my fingers...  
> Well, a couple of curses and some litres of blood later I'm all patched up again, but having my left hand completely in bandages has slowed my writing considerably.
> 
> But, on the bright side, this Chapter is humongous... It's the longest one by far and, even though I couldn't keep it completely angst-free it's comparatively fluffy.  
> There's a bit of lemon somewhere closer to the end, but nothing too graphic and all in all the sweet Dragon-Children actually get a breather, for even a monster like me has to take a break from torturing the precious SaberBabes every now and then.  
> Chapter titel, btw., is german for: ... and the moon within your eyes.
> 
> So, without further ado, please enjoy: Sting and Rogue's quickly ending daydream pt1/1

The day they return to the Guild is a dull one; the clouds shifting listlessly in the grey, rain-heavy skies while a fine mist hangs low over the windswept scenery.

In every nook of the city a thin veil of fog seems to press itself against houses and walls; the moisture nestling in the clothes of the few people hurrying through the streets and clinging to their hair in tiny beads of silver.

Rogue's pitch black strands have curled into unruly, messy locks and Sting just can't keep his hands from running through the thick, silken tresses every once in a while.

“Would you please stop that...” the Shadow Dragon Slayer sighs exasperatedly, after prying his lover's fingers from the wet mop of hair for the umpteenth time. “I already look like a hand-brush gone wild...”

Whereas the blonde only grins innocently: “A very handsome hand-brush! Come on, it's all curly anyway... Let me have at least this tiny bit of fun!”

 

Rogue only sighs pointedly and rolls his eyes, but then just allows his pouting boyfriend to have his way.

He would never admit it, but he secretly loves how Sting's fingers always played with his hair, nails scarping the sensitive skin every now and then...

By now, however, he's certain, that the White Dragon Slayer had discovered this certain fact on his own.

 

They walk towards the Guild Hall in meaningless, light-hearted banter, obviously enjoying themselves in spite of the less than inviting weather, while Frosch and Lector soar around their heads in open joy of being reunited.

The Twin Dragons had left them behind in their room before heading to Crocus with heavy hearts and remorse, but they could not possibly take the Exceeds with them, to big was the danger of Jiemma finding out about their small companions.

 

After the Games, during the official banquet traditionally held at Mercurius in honour of the winning Guild, the Twin Dragons approached the looming form of their Master hesitantly, wearily watching him downing cup after cup of liquor, before cautiously asking permission, to head back to the Guild on foot the next morning.

For a terrible, heart-stuttering moment his empty eyes threatened to pierce them with repulsion and disdain, then a massive, roaring burp rose from the deepest pits of his stomach as he slurred:

“'s if I'd letcha gid on a train eva 'gain... 'Course you gonna walk... My Guild'd be t'laughin stocka Fiore...

Dragon-Slayers geddin motionsick... You tchoo bedder be thankful, you got sucha comp'ssionate Guild Master... I expectcha back wid'n five days... Now get oudda my sight, I need anotha drink... “

 

So before their Master could go back on his inebriated words, they headed out early the next morning, not bothering to regard the rest of their team with even so much as the tiniest fare-well, and sauntered through the blooming streets of Crocus with silvery morning-sunlight blinding their eyes.

They almost couldn't believe their luck... five days?

Had they really just been granted five whole days for a journey that wouldn't take them more than two at best?

Was that to mean, the fickle sprite called fate had actually presented the two of them with almost a week of time to spend at their own expense?

 

When the rest of the Sabertooth-Team arrived at the station, Sting and Rogue had already left Crocus and the small, tidy outskirts huddling against the mighty city-walls long behind, wandering a wide, lush valley full of waving cornfields and sun-drenched forests; their few belongings resting comfortably on their backs.

They had purchased a couple of camping supplies, blankets and a small stock of food for the way, and they walked leisurely, stopping ever so often for they weren't in a hurry whatsoever.

 

The lands around their Guild were comparatively barren and cragged, tall mountain ridges enclosing the city from almost every direction, so the open, lovely landscape stretching before their eyes was a more than welcome change of tapestry and the boys weren't planning on leaving for their almost claustrophobic home-town at the foot of the mountains until they absolutely had to.

So they spent the first morning of freedom in God-knows-how-long happily munching on fresh pastries, their bare feet dangling in the clear waves of a lively mumbling stream, splashing water at each other until their clothes were dripping wet, when Sting sloshed an especially generous load right into Rogue's flushed face.

The Shadow Dragon Slayer flung himself at his lover with lightning-fast motions, easily wrestling the blonde to the ground and they tumbled down the soft slope in a playful struggle.

Once halted in their descent, Sting was straddling Rogue's lap as he kept him pinned down effortlessly and both were huffing hard, a stitch stabbing their flanks, while they panted and gasped for air, unable to halt the bubbly laughter rising in their chests.

Azure eyes sparkled with mischief when the blonde leaned in, and the Shadow Dragon Slayer had already started writhing in fear of a merciless tickling, when suddenly he found his face covered in a shower of the sweetest butterfly kisses.

With his limbs suddenly limp and heavy he surrendered himself to Sting's each and every touch, lost himself in the ceaseless string of soft caresses, so very cautious, fond and gentle, he felt tears pricking behind his closed lids.

Seeing Sting like that, so beautifully carefree, innocent and whole, split open something deep, deep down his heart; broke the chains tied around all those sorrows, all the pain...

 

And thus it happened, that suddenly, amidst a warm shower of glistening sunlight, only seconds after laughing honestly, Rogue came undone without warning; crumbled as he felt the weight time had piled up on his shoulders falling away, leaving him eerily detached and lost.

Sting froze when the first harsh sob ripped itself free from trembling lips, whispering: “What's wrong? Rogue... what...” in apparent shock, before carefully sliding down and pulling him against his chest.

“Hey... what's wrong? Did I hurt you? Rogue?!”

 

Rogue, however, unable to speak, trembling, choking, as his chest tightened and his muscles locked up only shook his head against the blonde's shoulder, blindly pressing himself closer as he cried harder than he'd ever dared, all dams breaking, every last drop of the pent up tears he always held back as to not burden Sting with his own petty aches, now spilling freely.

“t's nothing... Really... 'm fine... I'm fine...” he stammered into his lover's chest, once the harsh, painful sobs had subsided, but he still just couldn't stop crying.

 

Completely lost, the sudden onslaught hitting him like a fist to his stomach, Sting couldn't do anything but hold him tightly, hands gently rubbing the tense, shaking back to ease the ragged breathing, and slowly rock him, praying for the fit to pass.

 

It takes almost twenty minutes...

Twenty excruciating, merciless minutes, before Rogue's heartbreaking sobbing finally died down and he panted heavily in his boyfriend's arms.

Sting didn't stop stroking him softly, pressed small kisses to his crown and kept his fingers tangled in the pitch-back tresses, but now he finally dared to speak again:

“Better?” he muttered cautiously, relieved to sense a tiny nod against his collarbone, and when nothing but silence followed, he carefully inquired:

“Rogue... what's the matter? You... I've never seen you cry like that... Are you alright, my love?”

The Shadow Dragon Slayer inhaled shakily, his breaths still unsteady and fleeting, as he mumbled:

“I... No, I'm okay... I... I don't even know what came over me. Really, Sting... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to trouble you... I'm fine now...”

The blonde looked him over, eyes wide and disbelieving, as he whispered in confusion: “How can you tell me, you're okay after that? Rogue... talk to me... What's wrong?”

“Really, it's nothing...” the dark-haired boy started, but then he remembered what he had tried so hard to make Sting understand, thought about the unwavering trust they had always maintained in one another, so he opted for being honest, even though it was hard, even though it hurt.

“It's just... seeing you so damn happy, so... untroubled... I couldn't help but think about all those times when you weren't, all the nights and... and...” Speech avoided him, but Sting understood.

 

One of his hands was still cradling the back of Rogue's head, kept him tucked safely into the crook of his neck, and now his fingers slid to the pale, wet cheeks, thumb hooked beneath his chin and he carefully made his lover look up at him, before he kissed his tear-stains away.

“Oh love... So that's what this was about...” his voice suddenly came sad and painstakingly gentle.

“I'm sorry I put you through all of this! I'm sorry..”

Witnessing the blonde once again devastated and full of self-reproach hurt Rogue like a sharp, merciless pang, but to his utter surprise, the White Dragon Slayer didn't go for another round of apologies and self-loath, but caressed his face and kissed him softly, breathing:

 

“I'm sorry you had to endure this... But I'm also so, so grateful that you didn't leave me! Rogue... I don't know if I ever even said this to you, but: Thank you! Thank you for staying by my side, thanks for picking up my burdens and carrying me along. Thanks for never giving up on me. I wouldn't even be here without you. You were my lifeline, you kept me going and you never asked for anything in return...

And I don't have anything else to give to you except for my love and my sincerest gratitude... I love you... Really... I know it's the least I can say, but... believe me, that I love you like nothing else on this planet...”

 

He had whispered his confession against Rogue's still quivering lips and once he'd finished, he kissed him again, laying every ounce of heart-felt, unrivalled affection into the gesture and the Shadow Dragon Slayer responded equally gentle, with the same desperate emotions welling up in his chest.

A warm sensation of pride spread within his guts as he realized, how his words had taken root within Sting's heart, had grown and soothed the raging self-loath festering there, telling him unambiguously, that his beloved was gradually recovering, steadily healing... And if he'd known, that to the blonde every touch was akin to a soothing balm, any kiss a remedy slowly cleansing his heart, he would have helplessly burst into tears once again.

But when their lips met, a silent dialogue arose between them, as they reassured one another of all those things words could not convey.

And when they finally broke apart, Sting found his lover's ruby eyes tranquil and hooded.

 

All of a sudden Rogue felt drowsiness bearing down on him – heavy and unscalable what with the warm sunlight filtering through the dome of leafs and the exhaustion of the past few days still nestling deep in his bones.

“Sting?” he muttered quietly into the safety of his neck, not even waiting for the tiny “Hmm?” ghosting though his hair, before continuing: “Thanks for trusting me! Thanks for letting me in and staying with me. Believe me, I gladly took on the pain and the concern, because it all lead down to this very moment right now, and I wouldn't trade that for the world. I'm fine now, really... I think, I just needed to get rid of all this shit... So, thanks for being there.”

He rubbed his head affectionately against Sting's shoulder, allowing it easily to be pulled closer, as the blonde nuzzled his hair softly and muttered: “Always, my love. Alw...”

Whatever was to follow was lost, when a hearty yawn contorted his face, having the blonde chuckle quietly: “We definitely didn't get enough sleep last night...”

 

Then he suddenly rolled onto his side, cradled Rogue against his chest and closed his eyes, a content sigh falling from his pursed lips as he buried his nose the the raven strands.

For a moment, Rogue wanted to protest, wanted to note, that their luggage was still at the other end of the bank, that they had to get back on their way, when Sting only mumbled:

“No, don't say it... We have time... It's nice here, we're both tired... I've got you... Naah, I ain't gonna move again so soon. Sleep a bit, you deserve some rest.”

And Rogue couldn't really deny that his body was screaming for a break, a moment of repose; and pressed up snug against his lover, the warm, crisp scent of summer and pine steadily coming from the blonde's skin, he fell asleep the moment he'd closed his eyes.

 

Sting woke to pale, nimble fingers carding gently through his hair and a pair of wine-red eyes looking at him all content and calm, and if the relaxed, dreamy expression on Rogue's features was anything to go by, he'd been watching over his sleep for quite some time now.

As soon as the long, blonde lashes started fluttering, the Shadow Dragon Slayer pressed a small peck to the tip of Sting's nose, breathing: “Hey there... Did you sleep well?”

Open amusement sparkled in his eyes, when the White Dragon Slayer stretched like a lazy cat letting out a string of content, quiet noises, before getting to his feet.

Pulling his lover up as well, he sauntered over to their luggage, that still lay abandoned a couple of yards away and had already begun packing up, when Rogue caught up with him, gently reaching for his hand.

“Why don't we just stay here for the night? It's 6 pm already and it's as good a place to make camp as any... I mean there's water close by and a sheltered clearing... Plus we have all the time in the world. I don't know about you, but I'm still positively sore from all those fights...”

“Gettin' old, huh?” the blonde teased lightly, “Then I guess I have no other choice than to stay here and let my geriatric boyfriend rest his arthritic flesh...”

“And just when I thought you couldn't get any dumber...” Rogue dead-panned, as he rolled his eyes.

“If anything, it would be my arthritic joints, dim-whit. Try educating yourself every once in a while, it could actually help.”

 

The two of them were totally engaged in their harmless banter, the peaceful air of the light-flooded forest making them feel sheltered and safe, and thus they didn't notice the incoming attack, before it was already to late.

A high-pitched: “Foooouuuund yoooouuuu!” rang piercingly throughout the quiet evening, and in the next second both boys got caught in the brunt of the impact, as something hit their chests painfully and dead-on, throwing them off their feet easily.

Short-taken and down on the ground as they were, neither had a chance to escape from the immediate onslaught, as two tiny balls of fur wriggled and huddled in their laps with open exclamations of delight.

 

“You guys!” Rogue beamed, surprise and disbelieve almost causing his voice to hitch, “What are you doing here?”

“Fro missed you! So Frosch came to see you! Welcome back, Rogue!” the green, sweet critter perched on the Shadow Dragon Slayer's shoulder, while nuzzling his cheek like crazy, squealing blissfully when pale fingers reached out to pet her with elation.

“The others came back late this morning”, Lector explained, while Sting scratched his head, “and we were really looking forward to seeing you again, but you just weren't coming. We listened to the lot secretly and learned, that you opted for walking.”

“Yeah!” Frosch chimed in “But we wanted you back so badly, we decided to meet you halfway... And because Lector is super-smart, he knew exactly, which road you would be taking....”

“Well, it's not like there was another road coming from Crocus....” Lector huffed, but his chest was still swelling with pride. “But we expected to find you much closer to the Guild... Have you been held up by something? I mean like this we won't make it back in time even if we're flying...”

 

A smug grin bloomed on both boy's faces, as they looked at each other, before either reached out and pulled his Exceed close.

“That's... That's just the best thing ever! You guys coming right now is... I don't know... Like the only thing that could make this even better. You know what? We're due to come back in five days!

Five days... we could make it in two, and now that you lot are here it would take a couple of hours at best.

So... who's down for a little holiday?”

 

So the four of them spent three carefree, sun-warmed days on the road, for once allowed to go at their own pace, freed from the heavy shackles of Jiemma's constant presence and the restraining, painful burden of having to pretend their bond didn't go further than complimenting magic and teamwork.

 

By now Sting had finally spilled the beans, as to why exactly he had never allowed them to show, just how much either of them meant to the other in public; had finally found it within him, to confess that the constant threat of Jiemma torturing and probably raping Rogue had been dangling above their heads for years and the way his lover's face had paled and fallen is still buried deep into the blonde's mind.

 

“See...” the Shadow Dragon Slayer whispered chokingly. “I knew the bastard had threatened you, to stay in line... Oh Sting, you've gotten so hurt, just because you were trying to protect me... And you endured all of this without a single word...”

He'd kissed him then – warm and honest – promising, that one day.... One day it would be okay for them to reach out for one another's hand in the market place, wrap their arms around each other, upon being reunited at the station or press a lingering, gentle kiss to full, enticing lips in the Guild Hall whenever one of them was to leave for a mission.

One day...

One day they would build a place to call home. And if they had to brave the hordes of hell in order to do so, then so be it.

 

But until then they wouldn't allow their fate to break them; would cling to their hopes, shelter and nurse this small, flickering flame buzzing within their hearts, while stubbornly refusing to let those rare, exhilarating moments of careless joy to be stolen or tarnished.

That was why – despite of what had happened in Crocus, despite knowing the cruel laws of Sabertooth would catch up with them, once they'd set foot inside the Guild again – they tried to savour each and every second of those precious days spent on the road.

 

The weather had been indulging them, as if nature itself wanted to reimburse them within the course of a mere couple of heart-beats, for all those summer-days forever lost between endless, torturous training-sessions and the mouldy, suffocating darkness of the pit...

 

Gentle sun rays were dancing over their skin and an endless sky above them, its deep azure only rivalled by the sparkle in Sting's eyes whenever a mindless laugh tumbled from his curled up lips.

The scent of golden barley, whispering in the breeze, as their fingers grazed the long awns gently while walking by.

Bird song, sweet and melodic, mingling with Frosch's chiming laughter, when she dropped clumsily woven crowns of daisies onto their heads.

The taste of not-quite-ripe-yet apples and the sour-sweet prickling they left behind on Rogue's lips.

A lightness bubbling up within their hearts all four of them had all but forgotten about by now.

 

They'd made camp in the middle of a meadow close to the inviting shore of a wide, shimmering lake tucked snugly into a valley between the blueish hills that separated Crocus from their destination; and there they'd spent a golden afternoon goofing around in the beautifully untouched, crystal clear water.

The sunlight scattered into thousands of dancing diamonds, bouncing merrily over the waves, until the sparkles found their way right into gemstone-like eyes, nestling there quietly for a moment, before noiselessly seeping deeper, directly into hearts bursting with youth and a boisterous hunger for life.

 

With the Exceeds perching on their heads, they had mercilessly attacked one another with wiggling fingers in an attempt to overthrow the other and pull him beneath the dazzling surface, down into the forest green depths, were the sun-light broke in countless specks of gold.

In the end Sting and Lector had won each and every match against Rogue and Frosch, but the Shadow Dragon Slayer didn't regret losing in the slightest, for each time he'd been pulled under water, Sting claimed his lips gently, while the sun-rays piercing through the endless blue bestowed a halo of the fairest light upon floating strands of gold.

And he found his breath stolen, for he was certain, that he'd never seen his lover more radiant, more dazzling and alive than in these surreal moments of fleeting beauty.

Then they resurfaced together, holding onto each other, lip-locked, dizzy and not giving a single damn in the world, if any one could see them kissing like the lovesick teenagers that they so rarely ever got the chance to be.

 

Their wild, wholehearted laughter filled the heat-flickering air, and when they'd finally collapsed in dripping-wet heaps of wheezing giggles onto nests of soft, tickling grass, the boys had felt boneless with exhilaration and giddy with glee.

Tears of joy were still running down their faces in abundance, their breaths fleeting and the flushed cheeks a stark contrast to their pale, blue lips.

 

Goosebumps ghosted all over their bodies, while the small drops of water clinging to their skin suddenly seemed in a hurry to tumble down into the narrowing space between them, as sun-kissed arms wrapped around a milk-white neck; gently pulling the Shadow Dragon Slayer in.

The next second the meaningless, good-natured bickering had given way to a familiar tenderness, as Sting slowly leaned in; a bright smile relentlessly playing over his features; and when their mouths had finally met in a lingering, loving way, he felt that Rogue had been grinning like an idiot the whole time, as well.

 

They lay on their tickling bed of swaying grass for what felt like hours, unstrung, pliant bodies drinking up the generous out-pour of hazy summer-heat, their pulses comfortably lazy, as if mimicking the slow buzzing and rustling teasing their ears.

The cats had snuggled up to them, eager to hear each and every detail about the tournament, and the boys tried their hardest to stay clear from all those things vile and hideous that right then threatened to taint the carefree retreat with their ghastly, merciless reality.

Obviously, however, Frosch didn't notice that both mages gradually fell silent, answers becoming shorter and more and more reluctant, until Lector nudged her discreetly, quietly intervening: “Hey Fro, weren't you going to tell them about the brook?”

At once the huge, bright eyes of the sweet little thing lit up, as she started rambling about how they had found the most beautiful butterfly, right next to the most beautiful flower, by the most beautiful hidden stream.

 

A wave of warm, raw affection seeped through Sting's chest, and while one of his hands rubbed the chestnut-coloured fur firmly, the other one gave a gentle squeeze to Rogue's fingers that had started quivering ever so slightly in his grasp.

A couple of minutes later the rapidly building tension started seeping out of his lover's form again, before - with a small sigh and an exerted shaking of head – he forced the demons back; away from this sun-blessed sanctuary of insouciance.

 

They were both well aware, that fleeing reality and willing their burdens away by wishful thinking alone was neither especially healthy nor would it amount to anything, but gods, they needed this...

Needed those few moments of play-pretend in the mid-summer-wind – negligible and pathetic in their transience, but immeasurably precious in their rare uniqueness – to breath life into them and warm their frost-hardened cores, so that they had something to cling to, should fate throw the next round of punches their way.

So they laughed with the cats at anything and nothing, caught fishes and threw rocks, lazed around on the grass and simply felt each other close, while the endless afternoon flew past them in a flurry of everything vivid and bright.

 

The night wrapped around them like a well-worn, loose shirt; the darkness soft like velvet and sensual, as it pressed against the world and muted the buzzing, vibrant life that had been hustling and bustling erratically beneath the dazzling sun.

Now every colour seemed quieter, gentler and nature around them had calmed down and held its breath -

listening, reminiscing – while countless cicadas chirred and mockingbirds hummed their songs into the endless sky.

The happily burning fire where the boys had grilled their fishes had long since died down to embers and the cats were snoring carelessly, curled up against one another, next to the still warm stones.

Rogue and Sting had retreated a few yards back towards the lake as to not disturb their snoozing companions with their low chatter, but for almost half an hour already, the two of them had been surrounded by peaceful silence.

Leaning against one another as they sat, hands joined, they just watched the waning sickle of the moon creep over the horizon in a stunning halo of pale gold, and while Rogue's lids slowly started to grow heavy, the blonde had still been fidgety and buzzing with energy.

Fearing that his lover would fall asleep on him, if the hazy silence continued much longer, he quietly nudged the pale forehead with his nose, allowing his breath to tickle over the smooth skin, and whispered:

“Hey, Rogue...It's still far too hot to sleep...”

When nothing but an unintelligible grumble heeded his words, he repeated his actions, this time the prodding a little bit harder, his voice a little more whiny: “Oh come on... It's hoooot... Let's go for a swim before we go to bed, pleeeaase....”

For a moment his sole answer was silence, but before he could start pouting and pestering the Shadow Dragon Slayer in honest, he sighed:

“Fine... you wouldn't stop bugging me, anyway... I'll go wake Lector and Fro...” Warm fingers caught his wrist, bringing his palm up to pliant, sweet lips that pressed open-mouthed kisses all over his hand, breathing:

“Don't... Let them sleep, there's nothing to worry about out here... and we'll be close by...”

A sparkle of something nameless ghosted through Sting's deep, longing eyes as he looked at Rogue; his features open and unguarded, but also somehow tight in a strange anticipation.

 

This time they didn't run into the lake thrashing and laughing, rather slid into the waters gracefully and without a sound; two pale, silent forms gliding through the waves and sending ripples dancing over the reflection of the moon.

The silvery light caught in Sting's hair and cast shadows over his eyes, but when Rogue drew closer, he found his expression tranquil and longing, while a mindless smile played at his lips.

For a moment he'd already leaned in to steal a kiss, but then it suddenly hit him just how awfully mushy and cheesy the whole situation had become...

“Seriously...” he huffed mockingly, “are we actually swimming in the moonlight? That's so sappy and cliché... If you ever tell anyone about that, I'll flat out deny it!”

Sting, however, only chuckled quietly, as he pulled his lover into his arms: “And yet, here you are with me... Doing sappy things, fulfilling each and every cliché in the book...”

And Rogue didn't argue; only threaded his fingers through the blonde spikes and eased their mouths open in a sensual, hungry kiss.

 

Sting almost melted into him, pressed himself closer in search of contact and warmth, while his hands roamed ceaselessly over the cool skin; a trail of goosebumps prickling in their wake.

Husky sighs ghosted through the insignificant space between their lips, leaving vibrating after-images rumbling down their tight throats, and when the White Dragon Slayer's bucking hips connected claimingly with his lover's crotch, Rogue panted heavily against his mouth, before he deepened the kiss with urge and desire.

 

He all but devoured Sting's flushed lips, while his hands trailed possessively over the toned waist, and after a moment's hesitation, he started grinding against the hard bulge in the blonde's thin shorts with teasing, slow motions.

 

The White Dragon Slayer felt his head swimming, legs suddenly heavy and faint, while a hot, buzzing pleasure coiled deep down in his groin, almost robbing him off his mind.

For a moment he didn't even notice, that he was being lifted up, for Rogue never broke contact while he guided the willowy legs around his hips - shuddering, when the other's hard length rubbed up against his abs - before he carried his lover ashore.

Sting was dully expecting to be lowered onto the cold, hard ground, but to his surprise his skin didn't meet itching grass, but a fluffy nest of blankets, and not for the first time he couldn't help but marvel at his other half's thoughtfulness and foresight.

Neither had he thought about bringing blankets, nor did he notice Rogue preparing a make-shift bed....

 

Yet, in the next second the Shadow-Dragon-Slayer had already eased him down carefully, before he straddled his hips and bedded the blonde's head onto his balled up jacket.

“You're quite eager tonight...” he whispered breathlessly, fingers softly combing through the wet, golden strands.

“Not my fault, my boyfriend looks so frickin' gorgeous...” Sting muttered lightly, as his hands trailed feather-light touches all over Rogue's muscular, ivory chest, but then he lost himself in hooded, hazy red eyes and he was met with such a heart-aching tenderness, it left him speechless.

 

The Shadow-Dragon-Slayer breathed a barely audible chuckle before he leaned in, pressing small pecks to the corners of Sting's mouth and found them still curled up in an honest, lopsided smile.

Another soft huff of laughter tickled the blonde's brow, all the while Rogue started covering his face in a shower of ever-so-careful butterfly-kisses; thus easily taking the heat and frenzied desire out of the air around them, without effacing the unspoken craving for closeness and the sweet ache of desire almost palpably between them.

 

And while the pale lips ghosted loosely over the blonde's temples, forehead and jawline, Sting couldn't help but be reminded of the way Rogue had dissipated the choking fear and lulled the crushing pain on this dazzling day in May, when everything had come undone and full circle.

The Shadow-Dragon-Slayer kissed him in the same ardent, devoted manner now, the touches barely more than a whisper on slightly freckled skin, and even though his limbs were quivering with held back yearning, he still kept the ceaseless string of caresses pliant and soothing.

The realisation, just how very far they'd come from then; how much they'd grown, how, despite all the vile shit that had happened since then, they'd managed to gradually merge into something strong and sacred, something so perfect and blissfully whole, hit him dead on; leaving his body needy and weak, with an urge for completion running hot and brazen through his veins.

 

He caught Rogue's pale, untroubled face in the cradle of his hands, instantly awestruck by the way the moonlight dripped from the long lashes dusting his milk-white cheeks, and whispered softly against his lips:

“You're amazing, Rogue... Do you even know that?”

Bringing their foreheads together, his muscular body still securely encircling Sting's relaxed form, the raven-haired boy only muttered a dumbstruck: “Huh?”, before he nudged the blonde's nose cautiously.

“Care to explain, how exactly I managed to earn this kind of praise?”

 

And while his nimble fingers wandered over each and every inch of the moon-bathed skin; following the shyly claimed paths that had become so intimately familiar by now, the White Dragon Slayer mumbles:

“Because you never gave up on me... 'Cause you were so patient... 'Cause you make me so damn happy... And now look how far we've come... ” for a moment he hesitated – suddenly small, lost and on the brink of being overwhelmed by memories – but then he reached out carefully for the marble-light cheeks and coaxed his lover closer, to claim his full lips once again; languidly and sloppy this time, while fumbling their shorts off hurriedly.

The thin linen briefs, almost translucent with wetness didn't conceal much, and still, once the boys felt one another bare and close like that, the shivers of a still undiscovered emotion shook them to their very core, leaving them behind in a curled up mess of quaking limbs and hitching breaths.

Overwhelmed by the sudden intimate closeness, the need to somehow affirm just how very much simply being with Rogue had completed and healed him, Sting let his hips roll against the still frozen form of his lover, moved against him covetously and teasingly slow, all the while waiting for his other half to eventually meet his quivering gaze.

 

When Rogue finally noticed the blonde's expectant, pleading look, he found himself helplessly lost in pools of a blue so deep and rich, it seemed as if the starlit sky itself had sunken into his lover's eyes.

 

Something warm and endlessly longing gently seeped into their expression; completed the smile spreading from his lips, and with a fine shudder ghosting through his form, Sting breathed:

“Will you sleep with me?”

Rogue' eyes widened, trembling limbs frozen in place, as the weight of Sting's question sunk in; so he reached out to cradle the dear face, quietly inquiring: “Are you sure? You don't have to-”

A careful finger came to rest across his fumbling lips, easily shutting him up, then the blonde reached out lightly, the pad of his thumb trailing Rogue's sensual bottom-lip intriguingly.

“Yeah...” he whispered into the darkness, with his heart bare and unguarded in his eyes.

 

And thus they had loved each other for the first time that night, in a baptism of silvery moonlight and a gentle breeze cooling their skin.

Sting had expected pain, had brace himself for a sensation he only recalled from the most vivid nightmares, but in the end what he would always remember from these moments of shaky, breathless finding was the sentience of complete and utter acceptance and an overall feeling of being cherished, worshipped even, beyond anything even remotely imaginable.

And of course it had hurt, but it had been a fleeting sensation, quickly dissipated by Rogue's warm hands on his skin and the sight of his lover's expression; unstrung and yet tight in bliss, with an endless dedication shimmering in the hazy red eyes.

Eager and thrilled though he might have been, the Shadow Dragon Slayer had proved an epitome of gentleness, as he kissed his way all over Sting's body with abandon; his hands and lips steadily ghosting over the tan skin, teasing, pleasing- until in a whirl of panted breaths and jerking limbs the White Dragon Slayer had come shiveringly beneath the warm, pliant mouth, that had caressed him with the patience of a saint.

And with his head still swimming, his body relaxed and suddenly turned to mush under Rogue's careful hands, he easily complied, when his lover guided him down into his lap.

For a moment the burning sting made him hiss, but in the same second, gentle, trembling fingers had started stroking him, efficiently erasing the pain and easing the tension out of his form when he took in his beloved's quietly gasping, moonlit features.

The Shadow Dragon Slayer kept himself suspended by the tightest of leashes, refused to move adamantly, always mindful to keep Sting distracted with his every touch and the blonde unravelled easily beneath his loving, eager touch.

Neither of them had lasted long, both shuddering as they climaxed only seconds apart; the other's name tumbling from their quaking lips.

The next thing Sting new, was warmth and an endless tenderness, as Rogue had pulled him down into his arms, pressing a string of soft, endearing kisses to the golden strands brushing his skin.

With quick motions he cleaned up and wrapped the blankets around them tightly, before his hands trailed over the sun-kissed skin languidly and with abandon, and once he'd found his voice somewhere deep down, drowned by the rushing of his blood and both of their heart-beats thundering in his ears, he whispered hoarsely: “Are you okay?”

For a moment all Sting could manage was a tiny nod, his throat tightening with too many emotions to put into words, but then sweet, pliant lips started trailing lightly over his temple, and the suffocating chaos subsided.

“Yeah... I'm fine...” he muttered, smiling softly upon being pulled closer.

 

“That was amazing...” Rogue breathed, awe in his voice and his heart in his eyes, all the while he kept on caressing his lover's face with the utmost caution and love.

He didn't let go, pressed firm, lingering kisses to the soft crown, murmuring sweet little nothings against Sting's brow, while the blond kept peppering his jawline with tickling, barely noticeable pecks.

They lay like this for an inestimable number of minutes, while the moon wandered silently above their heads and its silver light played over their skin; both trying to commit the sight to memory, for the bony shine that painted fleeting shadows onto their relaxed faces marked yet another mile-stone; harboured once again a new, trailblazing victory, they'd wrested from their unyielding fate.

“Rogue...” the blonde whispered softly, nudging the other's firm chest fondly, “what have I ever done to deserve you?”

A warm chuckle ghosted over the Shadow Dragon Slayer's pale lips, before he huffed:

“I don't know... but homicide or arson seems pretty reasonably to me...”

“Idiot...” the blonde laughed quietly, before snuggling closer, the warm scent of cedar heavy and beguiling in his nose.

 

As his racing pulse gradually calmed down, Sting felt a leaden, tranquil weakness spreading throughout his whole body, that left him boneless and exhausted, but also genuinely content and at ease.

Nestled against the Shadow Dragon Slayer's chest as he laid, enclosed by everything warm and loving, he could feel his other half drifting off gently, as the ceaseless, careful caresses trailed over his back and shoulders slowed down and stilled.

Rogue's arms grew heavier around him, as tension seeped out of his muscles and his heart-beat quietened, until a single twitch ran through his form, leaving him motionless and limp; with Sting cradled securely in his hold.

 

At first the White Dragon Slayer barely even dared to breath in fear of waking his peaceful lover, but then the lazy rhythm of Rogue's heart paired with the deep, even breaths told him without ambiguity, that the dark-haired boy was dead to the world.

And when Sting pressed a string of fleeting, soft kisses to his jaw, he only whined quietly before curling a bit tighter around the blonde and unconsciously nuzzling his crown.

Mere moments later the steadily wandering moon found both of them sound asleep, with their limbs entwined and their hearts beating steadily against each other.

 

The following days turned out to be nothing but a sun-drenched, beautiful blessing that left all four of them tranquil and with utter satisfaction nestling deep down their bones, as their skin drank up the warmth so generously offered, until even Rogue's pale complexion showed a soft tan.

And even though the weather had taken a turn for the worse the closer they got to their home-town, even the constant drizzling couldn't tarnish the bubble of genuine contentment surrounding them.

 

They are almost back at the Guild, but they still carry a small piece of summer-sun with them, the dazzling sparkles that had danced on the waves still vivid within their hearts, as well as the memory of moonlight on bare skin.

The thought has Sting smile softly, while he reaches out to play with Rogue's hair once again, as the looming shadow of their Guild Hall steadily draws closer, until he suddenly stalls dead in his tracks.

A scent he never wanted to encounter ever again, had just entered his nose...

For a second he's tempted to shrug it off as imagination, but then he feels Rogue freezing up and bristling beside him, telling him he wasn't mistaken.

 

A dragon never forgot.

And once what was most precious to him had been stolen or hurt, he didn't forgive either.

Coming directly from the Guild Hall is the stench of cheap cologne and sweat, and Sting's mind adds the scent of Rogue's trembling fear and painful tears all by itself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone!
> 
> May the summer-sun illuminate your lifes!
> 
> Please be safe and take care!
> 
> SIncerest greetings, TGA


	24. Totes Blut und dunkle Schatten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In blood we tell the tales of our darkest hours, when we've doused the flicker of humanity and fought our fate with teeth and claws, when we've brought death, and pain and sorrow, just so that we can save ourselfs.  
> For you, I'd spill the tears of the innocent and shed the life force of the saints, for they've stolen our hearts and tainted our souls; they've made beasts out of us and now like beasts we fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there everyone,
> 
> another Chapter done, another scene full of fluff and unicorns puking glitter and rainbows... Oh, wait, no, that was another Stingue-Fic; the one that I'll never write^^
> 
> After the beautiful flight from reality into a short time-out of summer-fluffiness and love our boys are back in what-ever the shit-town, where Sabertooth's Guild Hall is, is called... Thanks Hiro Mashima for never actually naming the place...  
> (Can you tell, I had some trouble with this fact?)
> 
> And now their cruel fate catches up with them again... Therefore there are some trigger warnings again, such as gore, ref- to non.con-elements and some good old violence...
> 
> So, for the love of god, here it come: Sting and Rogue's never ending nightmare pt. 23 (since they had their little daydream last time :-)
> 
> Chapter-title means: Dead blood and dark shadows

Sting moves solely driven by instinct and with an involuntary growl rising in his tight throat, as he manoeuvres himself in front of Rogue protectively, his whole posture at once rigid and ready for combat, while he finds the other's heart beat picking up speed.

“What the fuck's that guy doing here?” the Shadow Dragon Slayer hisses, as he moves closer to his lover, effortlessly taking his usual place right by his side and shielding his openings.

 

By now they're so in sync with one another, they act like a single entity when fighting - body and mind connected, each and every move certain and determined, and whenever they released the almost overwhelming raw magic energy building between their hands in a unison raid, a hot buzzing static would run through their very cores.

 

When they'd taken down the first opponent during the Grand Magic Games like that, they'd barely even made it back to their changing rooms, before Sting had pressed Rogue flush against the wall to close in for a heated, hungry kiss, that left both of them rock-hard and gasping for air.

 

But right now the atmosphere around them isn't brimming with the thrilling intoxication of victory and the exciting sensation of feeling the other's heart-beat thundering through the ground...

In this very moment an almost palpable feeling of dread surrounds them, while unease makes the hairs at the back of their necks stand on end.

Both of them seem ready to lash out and go for the kill within the blink of an eye, and the sudden aggression has the Exceeds frozen in a fearsome bewilderment.

“Sting?” Lector mutters cautiously, as he lands on the blonde's shoulder, taken aback when a harsh flinch runs through the tense, quaking form upon contact.

“Sting... what's wrong?”

Another low growl is his sole answer, before Rogue mumbles hoarsely:

“You guys keep close and stay behind us! Something's off here and things might just get nasty...”

 

“Stench's definitely coming from the Guild Hall, but it's leading into the opposite direction from there...

East, towards Bright End...”, the blonde whispers, still sniffing, still steadily offering comfort and support through silent closeness, and he huffs a mirthless laughter, when Rogue replies icily:

“Bright End... As to be expected of scum like him... Go on, try hiding between other trash, we'll find you anyway and then we'll see, whom exactly I have to thank for those unforgettable memories... ”

 

The name of the eastern district of their home-town is as misleading as it is sarcastic, for the shabby looking, run-down houses, the narrow, dirty streets and the wary, almost hostile eyes glittering in the twilight beyond shattered window-panes could hardly be called “bright” at all.

An urban myth exists, proclaiming, that the bedraggled district had once upon a time been called “Blight End”; a ward carelessly cobbled together to lock away the town's lepers and scum; alas when the city prospered the name was altered to its present title to sugar-coat the quatier's grim origins.

The tangy aftertaste the story leaves behind makes it all the more believable, even though nowadays far more dangerous germs dwelt within the chaos of decaying buildings and shit-littered streets.

The kind of germs, that had taken to walking on two legs...

 

“Rogue, is a bad person here?” Frosch asks meekly, as she huddles against his chest, where the muscles tremble ceaselessly over a racing, erratically beating heart.

“You could say that again...” the Shadow Dragon Slayer presses out in disgust, before he feels Sting leaning the tiniest bit firmer against him, as if to counterbalance his uncontrollable, fine quivering.

The gesture - tiny and negligible though it might have been - is enough for Rogue to regain his composure, and he allows a small shadow-tendril to caress the blonde's hand carefully, before turning towards their cats once again.

“Yeah... the guy probably means trouble. And even though he himself won't pose much of a threat, this particular hood certainly will. So I want the two of you to stay behind! We'll rendezvous in our room once we've dealt with this sucker.”

 

Then he pets Frosch's soft, warm fur with unabashed affection, calmly preventing any stuttered objections:

“No, listen... Both of you... I'm not sure what this guy's up to... He shouldn't be here in the first place and him hiding somewhere in this damn shit hole of a ward complicates matters further.

Bright End's just no place for walking, talking curiosities like you! People might get ideas and try snatching you away... We'd have to keep an eye on the two of you all the time, and this wouldn't only slow us down, but also make you a liability!”

 

“Yeah, Rogue's right, buddy!” the White Dragon Slayer continues, rubbing the fur behind Lector's ears.

“It's too dangerous. For you and for us as well. So, please... Wait for us back in our dorm and allow us to pursue the damn ass-hole without restraint!”

“Right!” Rogue adds warmly, as he looks their two cats over fondly. “Like that there'll be someone for us to come home to! Promise, you'll wait for us safe and sound in our room and we promise, we'll return to you in one piece! Do we have a deal?”

 

He holds his fist out; patiently waiting for Frosch and Lector to make up their minds; until a chestnut-furred paw taps firmly against his knuckles; a pink-clad one joining only seconds later.

And even though the Exceeds keep their eyes glued to the ground, their voices come loyal and determined when they give their word.

“We'll see you later, okay? And then we wanna know, exactly how much ass you've kicked and how you got out of this piss-pot unscathed! That this is gonna be the story you'll be tellin'! You're the strongest Dragon Slayers in Fiore, so givem hell!”

By the time he trails off, something choking and desperate has wormed its way into Lector's boasting words, causing his voice to quiver traitorously, but then he exhales forcefully, grabs Frosch's paw and, already heading towards the Guild Hall, turns around a last time.

“Come back safely! We're counting on you!”, then he speeds off, leaving behind nothing but a fading echo of : ”Fo thinks so, too...”

 

As soon as the cats have vanished behind the thick walls of the dormitory, the Twin Dragons both breath a simultaneous sigh of relief, upon managing to get their beloved companions somewhere comparatively safe, before joining hands and slowly resting their foreheads against one another.

A second of intimate, heartfelt closeness passes, until the boys slowly break apart, either wordlessly reassuring his partner, that things would turn out all right after all. Then Sting takes a deep breath and Rogue nods with determination, while he closes his eyes and focusses on the fading traces of the vile scent quickly dissolving in the tartness of rain and mist.

“Let's see if we can follow his stinking trail or if we have to break some bones, to drag out the rat...”

 

“Wow, you're downright scary like that, Rogue... But I can't blame you... I almost hope, he doesn't spill the beans as to who'd sent him right away, so that I can hurt him at least a little bit...”

A cruel sparkle ghosts through azure eyes, while something unforgiving and hard enters Sting's features, something violent and vengeful, that has him grab his lover's hand firmly, simply to silence the fierce possessiveness stirring in his draconic nature.

“And you just called me scary....” Rogue states flatly with a shaking of head, before he allows the blonde to lead the way, down into the labyrinth of shades and filth.

 

They weave through dark, empty alleys cautiously, their feet slipping on the mucky, dung-littered ground, while a thousand hidden eyes seem to bore into their backs and blurred silhouettes keep on darting through the far off corners of their vision, always whispering, always chasing – a steady, low buzzing that frays their nerves and causes their skin to start crawling.

The fleeting traces of the vulgar, sweat-heavy perfume taunt them; daring them to follow their waning path past disintegrating, abandoned shacks; around crumbling corners and through rubble-filled backyards, where the sunlight never even once has made it to the ground.

 

The few stores and vendors they come by, only have a meagre, dull assortment of wares on display, although every now and then the random, dusty exhibits shown in some windows kindle the suspicion of far more sinister ways of business behind the paper-thin charade of a down-trodden pawn-shop.

The sight does nothing to ease the feeling of being ogled from behind locked shutters and drawn, mothy curtains, and both boys are tense with alertness; jumping even at the sensation of rain drops hitting their skin.

 

Something rotten hangs heavily in the stale air; a veil of decay smothering light and live alike as it prowls the colourless, seedy nooks and crannies of a district forsaken by law and shunned by fortune.

The smell of violence, blood and gore slowly seeps into Sting's sensitive nose and nests there, tingeing every scent with the coppery red of death, and before he knows it, the sensation has become unbearable in its nauseating abhorrence.

The disgusting odour of decomposition slowly erases the trail of cologne and lacking hygiene they've been following, drowns their senses and clogs their throats, to the point where both actually start choking on thin air alone.

 

They slip into an especially dark, secluded cul-the-sac; more a crawl space between two skew-whiff, battered houses than an actual alleyway, and suddenly Rogue stalls dead in his tracks, a tuneless: “No way...” falling from his quaking lips.

Catching up to his petrified lover, the blonde already wants to question his behaviour, until his eyes follow the other's wide, frozen gaze and he, too, gasps forcefully.

 

Baldy lies dead in a poodle of his own, clotted blood; the clean, wide cut that splits his throat from one ear to the other almost akin to a second pair of lips cruelly grinning beneath his blood-caked, screaming mouth.

Neither of the Dragon Slayers finds himself able to move for a fear-frenzied, endless moment of sheer shock, their minds blank and breaths hitching – unable to process the horrible scene in front of their eyes.

Then a sudden sound breaks Sting out of his crushing stasis.

 

Rogue is shell-shocked, eyes unblinking; unseeing; the gruesome image burned into his retina and further down into his very core; while his usually keen mind is literally freaked out of its wits, with only a single thought screeching through the white static thrumming in his ears: “How...?”

The noise drowns everything around him, leaves him dizzy and faint, all the while the reminiscence of pitch-black lumps of blood oozing from purplish, broken lips just won't fade from his vision.

Something else dully penetrates the ice-cold, suffocating grip, panic adamantly maintains on his consciousness; something that tunes in and out like a radio-station just out of reach...

His breaths pick up speed, eventually going into hyperventilation, and the world rushes by in a whirl of grey and black and red; relentlessly, unstoppable...

 

Until a pair of hands grabs his shoulders harshly; giving his unmoving, wide-eyed form a firm shake.

“Rogue! Snap out of it!” Sting's voice cuts through the haze with urgency and fear having it snap and hitch. “Someone's coming!”

The Shadow Dragon Slayer still stares at him, tense and trembling, but otherwise without acknowledging his presence what so ever, so the blonde shakes him again, harder this time, and it takes all his willpower not to slap him into lucidity.

“Rogue! Someone's coming this way! We're at a crime scene, for fuck's sake! If anyone finds us here, we'll have some serious explaining to do! Get a hold of yourself!”

And finally the dark haired boy comes back to his senses, jerking away with a rough yelp, before he trains his terrified eyes on Sting, mumbling a shaky, strained: “Shit... that's a dead end...”, while whatever colour remained in his cheeks rapidly drains from his features.

 

“I know...” the blonde breathes, his eyes darting around erratically, desperately looking for a way out; but there's nowhere to hide, no gap to squeeze through and the steps heading down the dark alley right towards them and the sight of the murder, are steadily closing in, only hundred yards away from rounding the last corner and catching them seemingly red-handed.

He starts panicking, feels his heart racing, as it jumps right into his already fear-constricted throat, so when Rogue suddenly backs him up against the crumbling wall and presses himself flush against him, he would have screamed, had his mouth not been hastily covered.

 

Azure eyes widen dramatically in confusion, cling fearfully to surprisingly determined, wine red ones, before the Shadow Dragon Slayer hushes the blonde quietly, and simultaneously pulls him into his arms.

“Rogue, this is hardly the time for...” Sting urges, but his lover interrupts him at once, voice all of a sudden calm and steady.

“Hush... Quick... tell me: Do you trust me?” he inquires, leaving Sting to stumble over his benumbed lips, trying to force out an intelligible answer.

“What... Why are you... Rogue, what's this about...”

“Do. You. Trust. Me?” the Shadow Mage simply repeats, emphasizing each syllable to convey the weight of his question, so Sting caves without even having to think twice.

 

“Yeah, of course I do.” he whispers against the full lips only a hair's width away from his own.

“Good.” Rogue sighs, before pressing two gentle kisses to the blonde's lids.

“Hold on to me and close your eyes.” He orders softly, his arms tightening Sting's form. “No matter what happens, no matter what you feel or hear; keep your eyes shut and don't let go.”

 

The steps have almost reached the corner, only moments remaining before who ever was to roam the remote, dark alley would spot them, and the realisation almost throws Sting into a panicked frenzy.

“Rogue?! What are you..”

He can't finish his question, for suddenly the ground seems to be devouring him, a never known gravity pulling him in, and he starts struggling against it almost instinctively; his body fearing to be buried beneath something alien and obscure.

But in the next second Rogue's fingers start running carefully through his hair and one of his hands comes to cradle his cheek, while he mutters a barely audible:

“Easy there... It's alright! Please, just relax. I'm getting us out of here!”

But when the blonde's limbs still prove unable to lessen their rock-hard rigour, keep on trembling with pent up tension as he refuses to be sucked in by all-encompassing blackness, the Shadow Dragon Slayer claims his lips with a possessiveness, honesty and devotion; Sting is left with weak legs and a sweet dizziness intoxicating his mind.

Then chilly nothingness swallows them whole.

 

He feels Rogue's body changing, feels him curling around his figure completely as everything rushes past them in an insane whirlwind of a blackness, so strangely dazzling, he could perceive it even behind closed lids, and he couldn't tell for the life of him, if his lover still had a tangible form or was nothing but ephemeral energy wrapped tightly around him, as he shivers.

 

Initially Sting has no idea, what's going on, simply relies on his other half to know what he's doing, but after a few moments he realizes, that the roaring, stomping ocean of colourless gloom must be the world within the shadows...

 

An infinite darkness confining him with no way out;

Rogue's incorporeal embrace the sole thing between him and a spiralling tumble into eternal oblivion...

His stuttering heart once again trapped in a smothering, greedy eclipse and the cacophony ringing throughout the chaos abruptly turns into rough, snorting moans panted into his face...

 

Suddenly he can't breath.

 

Suddenly the air turns solid in his lungs, weighs mercilessly on his chest, making him wheeze and gasp and choke, while cold sweat breaks out on his brow.

He can almost feel huge, malevolent hands strangling him and as his mind starts slipping into the void, he can't stop gagging on something hard and throbbing, that gets shoved down his throat.

 

Only when Rogue's voice – strangely detached and echoing – halls through whatever was to lie behind Sting's closed eyes, does the vile sensation wane ever so slightly:

“Shh... It's okay... I know, it's dark but I'm right here! You're safe... You're safe! I won't let anything happen to you!”

Sting, however, every muscle petrified and convulsing, only chokes out a string of weak, dying attempts to draw air, while a primal fear wrecks his body.

 

“Easy there... Easy, my love!” The Shadow Dragon Slayer soothes, and for a moment the blonde clearly senses him huddling closer; gentle tendrils of shadows caressing his face, before unusually cold lips coax his mouth open in a gentle, lingering kiss.

“Don't...” the soft whisper trickles down Sting's throat, followed by sweet air, as Rogue shares his own breath with him, and the intimate, tickling sensation finally eases the tension.

“Everything's okay! It must be terrifying for you down here, but believe me, you can breath just fine.”

 

And when Rogue says so, then that's the way it is...

 

So the blonde inhales, staggering and ardous at first, but when he actually finds oxygen flooding his body, he gulps it down greedily.

Meanwhile he focusses on the warm scent of cedar and the sensation of his lover shielding him, enclosing him in a bubble made of everything so unmistakably “Rogue”, he can't help but feel completely safe in it.

Around them the darkness roars in deafening silence.

 

They emerge from the shadows only a stone's throw away from the Guild Hall and Sting immediately sinks to his knees, head reeling, ears buzzing with a raging torrent of piercing static, and his mind unable to form a coherent thought.

It takes a couple of minutes for the spinning to subside, all the while he keeps taking slow, deep breaths to calm his fleeting pulse, and only when he's certain, that he's regained control over his body, he croaks a voiceless:

“What the actual bleeding fuck was that? I didn't know you could do something like that...”

For a moment his sole answer is silence, then Rogue forces out a strained whisper, each word uttered with the greatest effort:

“Yeah.. I... usually try to avoid... pulling this special stunt... Always does quite a number on me...”

 

Suddenly Sting notices, that his lover is panting heavily, and sure enough, when he finally looks up, he finds the Shadow Dragon Slayer on the ground, reduced to a heap of disobeying limbs and ragged breaths, slumped groggily against a wall.

 

The blonde scrambles over to him, movements still sluggish, before he drops down and gently guides his weary boyfriend into curling up against his side, to allow him a short-lived moment of rest, before they had to head back to the Guild.

“Sorry...” Rogue mumbles meekly against the White Dragon Slayer's neck. “That must have been scary...”

 

“Are you nuts?” Sting intervenes, “What are you apologizing for? You saved our damn asses, even though it took everything you've got and more... Scary... Pffft... My ass... This was absolutely incredible!”

 

The Shadow Dragon Slayer, however, doesn't respond, simply reaches for his lover's hand with doting motions and closes his eyes.

Sting combs through his hair gently, relief, gratitude and affection swirling warmly in his guts, but after a few moments he already feels the raven head growing heavier on his shoulder, the erratic pulse gradually evening out, and he realizes, that if they stayed like that for even one minute longer, Rogue would irrevocably fall asleep on him... and given the complete and utter exhaustion written all over his pale face, Sting doubts, that he would be able to rouse him so easily.

 

Therefore he gently shakes the lax shoulder, pleading: “Come on, we gotta go! Jiemma expects us back today and we're already running late! The Guild Hall's just around the corner! Only a few yards away!”

 

When nothing but unintelligible grumbling heeds his words, he pries a bit firmer, softly nudging Rogue's ribs with his elbow: “Oh come on, man! Pull yourself together! Ten more minutes, and then I'll let you sleep as long as you want to!”

Another moment of silence passes, then the Shadow Dragon Slayer grabs the patiently offered hand and lets his lover pull him to his feet, stumbling after him with unsteady, swaying steps.

As he staggers along - his eyes drooping and and his muscles faint - he bumps into the blonde ever so often and Sting looks him over compassionately, whispering remorsefully:

“I'm sorry, I have to push you even further, believe me I'd carry you, if it wasn't for Master... But I'm afraid, he'd beat you into a pulp, if you were to return to the Guild in such a “pathetic state of weakness”... So please, bear with it just for a little longer!”

“'m okay,..” Rogue mumbles hoarsely, as he forces his body back into obedience. “Don't worry, I can walk just fine.”

And yet, when Sting moves closer in an attempt to offer at least a little bit of comfort, he leans against him willingly.

 

Once inside the gloomy, suffocating air of the Guild Hall, Sting tries to navigate them to their room without running into Master Jiemma, but the only way to the dormitories leads through the common room, and as to be expected, there his oafish form sits enthroned on his oversized, lumpish excuse for a chair.

“Was about time, you two finally showed your faces!” he booms, as soon as he spots their hesitant figures almost sneaking through the doors.

“What took you so fucking long, huh?”

Violent, piercing eyes bore right into their souls, searching for something either of the boys couldn't even begin to imagine, before thankfully waving it off.

 

“Never mind... I've got a mission for you, I'm expecting you down here first thing next morning, groomed and ready! And, now go wash up, you reek! What a damn disgrace!”

 

He goes on for a little while, cursing at the sight of their worn-out, dust-caked travel clothes and their obviously tired expressions, but Sting doesn't listen any more; only prays, that Rogue would manage to hang in tight and keep himself from collapsing. until they're finally dismissed.

 

He actually pulls it off somehow...

Doesn't falter or cave...

Not when Jiemma all but throws them out of the main hall.

Not when climbing the three flights of stairs with dead legs, quivering on the last thin thread of strength.

Not when dragging himself down the seemingly endless hallway that leads to their room.

He actually holds up until their door is already in view, only a few yards separating them from the quiet safety of their dorm, and then his knees finally buckle beneath him.

 

Sting is there in a heart-beat, wraps an arm securely around Rogue's slim waist and lends him his broad shoulder to lean on, muttering:

“It's okay, we're almost there... I've got you... Just a little further”

He knows the Shadow Dragon Slayer is trying, feels him mobilizing every last little scrap of strength to keep himself from sagging heavily against the blonde's chest as his whole body starts trembling with fatigue.

So Sting all but carries him down the corridor, easily shouldering almost all of his weight, while trailing a ceaseless string of sweet, hidden caresses over the quivering flanks.

 

As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, the Exceeds immediately fling themselves at the boys – two small balls elation and relief - but the bubbly greetings die on their lips, upon taking in their state.

“What happened?” Lector gasps, while Frosch hurries over to perch lightly on her best friend's shoulder, inquiring teary and small: “Is Rogue hurt?”

Lifting his head with quite a bit of effort, the Shadow Dragon Slayer only mumbles: “'m fine, just wasted...”

 

The strain in his voice hurts everyone like a knife, but the cats still relax visibly, when Sting adds:

“No, really, he's okay. We just had to get out of there in a hurry and Rogue overdid it a little.

We'll tell you later, right now we just need...”

He doesn't get to finish his sentence, for suddenly his lover's weary body slackens in his arms, almost sending both of them to the ground.

The blonde only manages to hoist the crumbling form up in the last possible moment, chuckling softly, as he carefully steers his groaning boyfriend over to their bed: “Hey, dude... No fair. You can't just k.o. on me, before I've tucked you in...”

With borrowed power, Rogue pries off his cape and shoes, movements leaden and painstakingly slow, then he simply lets himself collapse onto his side of the bed.

He has passed out, before his head even hits the pillow.

 

Everything is silent, safe for the soft snoring of the Exceeds, and Sting is all alone with his thoughts and fears, while the dull afternoon gradually turns into a soundless evening.

With the heavy, grey clouds still hanging lazy and low in the sky, their room has darkened steadily, until it's become a dimly lit, secluded retreat, bestowing a fleeting moment of safety and rest upon the troubled boys.

Rogue has been sleeping like a log for almost five hours, his exhausted body refusing to move even a single inch, except for unconsciously chasing after the gentle fingers that keep on combing through his hair with slow, tender motions.

 

Sting watches over his deep, unperturbed slumber with awe; brushes the unruly, thick, black bangs out of his rapidly moving eyes time and again; evenry once in a while pressing sweet, almost imperceptible kisses to the pale skin of his temple.

Right as he repeats the loving caress for the umpteenth time, a small sigh falls from Rogue's softly parted lips, and he pries his eyes open with a series of small, soft noises.

Still sleep-addled, dishevelled and mellow, he rolls onto his side lazily and snuggles up against Sting, slings an arm around his waist sluggishly, and nuzzles into the broad chest with a content, happy sigh.

The carefree, serene demeanour suggests that his consciousness was still afloat within the grey twilight between sleep and awake, but Sting can actually pinpoint the exact moment, Rogue's mind resurfaces from the endless void of oblivion.

And with awareness return memories...

Memories of black, lumpish blood, broken eyes, a gaping cleft in a wobbly gorge; sweaty, fumbling hands, and a clumsy, disgusting tongue in mouth...

 

A rough jerk runs through his body and a tuneless whisper falls from his benumbed lips: “That wasn't a dream, was it?”

Sting pulls him closer, carefully nuzzles his crown, while his fingers thread softly through the dark tresses.

“No, love...” he sighs wearily. “The guy's definitely been offed...”

“But how...? Why now and why here of all places?” The Shadow Dragon Slayer's voice comes small and shell-shocked, choked by confusion and an almost visceral feeling of dread, while he stubbornly attempts to suppress the shivers threatening to wreck his form.

 

Sting has rarely ever seen Rogue this shaken...

Usually the laid-back, level-headed Shadow Mage proved to be his anchor; his lifeline in troubled waters, when wave upon wave of crushing flash-backs threatened to drown him, and he wants nothing more than to curl around him and whisper soft promises of safety against his brow...

Alas, they are a far cry from being even remotely safe... Not here, not anywhere, and with the recent events taken into consideration, vigilance and awareness were crucial, if they wanted to avoid whatever repugnant, abhorrent dangers were closing in on them.

So he runs his hands up and down Rogue's still quivering back, and breathes a small sigh, as he tries his hardest to come up with the right words...

 

“So... I've been thinking...” he starts cautiously, his fingers never even once breaking contact, as they keep trailing light, soothing touches all over tight muscles and unsteady limbs.

“What if this revolting fucker had actually been sent by Master?”

 

The Shadow Dragon Slayer starts spluttering in open confusion and surprise, but Sting hushes him lowly, continuing unperturbed: “Shhh, wait... Hear me out... We already suspected, that Baldy wasn't just an infatuated creep, who had finally snapped and given in to his cravings... There were so many things that didn't add up...

But think about it for a second... Jiemma must know about the two of us being together... we've been careless, so he either figured it out on his own, or Minerva filled him in.”

He trails off for a second to see if Lector and Frosch were still sound asleep, giving Rogue the chance to hiss a voiceless:

“So what about it?”

With his eyes adamantly trained onto the opposite wall, voice suddenly rough and heavy with pent up emotions, Sting all but whispers:

“Remember what I told you? About how he threatened to... to...” all of a sudden his throat tightens in disgust; repulsive flashbacks playing out in front of his blind eyes and now it's Rogue's turn to carefully ease the tremors out of his locked-up muscles.

 

“You don't have to-” he starts quietly, but the blonde shakes his head firmly, before inhaling forcefully.

“... to rape you, if he ever found us “balls deep in our gay shit” again.”

He mock-quotes with bone-chilling animosity, a rare hatred unconcealed within his tune, and when he continues, he all but spits the words out as if something vile and rotten had just crawled into his mouth.

 

“Let's just assume, that me beating up his pervert-ass actually taught him... and maybe seeing the two of us pull off a Unison Raid made him realize, that we could easily rip him a new one if he tried attacking us head on.”

Rogue starts nodding slightly, his brow creased and his eyes dead serious, before his gaze searches Sting's.

“So instead of beating the “gay-shit” out of us, he'd rather drives a wedge between us...”

His voice is low with disbelieve, but the terror written all over his features gradually gives way to unrivalled disgust and anger; and by the time Sting continues, he's started grinding his teeth in fury.

 

“Exactly! That's probably, why for you Baldy took on my appearance! That's why he drugged me up, too! So that I'd pass out somewhere in a corner and couldn't come to your aid...”

“And it explains why he treated me in such an aggressive, obtrusive way...” the Shadow Dragon Slayer's voice falters almost imperceptibly, so the blonde presses a comforting kiss to his forehead, whispering:

“Yeah... he was probably ordered to freak you out as much as possible, make you angry and scared and... and...”

He's fumbling for words, but Rogue picks up his sentence with a remorseful sigh:

“And break my trust in you? Yeah... if you put it like that, it actually makes sense...”

 

For a moment he trails off, squeezes his eyes shut, as chaos threatens to overwhelm his buzzing mind, but then nimble fingers ghost carefully over his face, gently cradle his cheeks and in the next second a soft pair of lips kisses the bridge of his nose; the loving touch prompting him to add:

“You know what's the most frightening part of all this?”

He doesn't even wait for Sting's answer, only shakes his head again in absolute incredulity.

“It's how well this horrible plan worked... Sting... if this girl hadn't warned you, I don't know, if I'd be lying here with you right now... If you hadn't shown up, god knows what would have happened to me... And I'd believed it was you... I'd actually blamed you...”

 

The blonde pales, even beneath his beautiful summer-tan, as he realizes just how very close they'd scraped past their utter undoing that night; remembers the deep disappointment dulling Rogue's eyes the following morning and the weary resignation, when he'd offered to forgive him...

 

“It was only because of you questioning my memories, that the spell came undone...” the Shadow Dragon Slayer breaths, voice hollow with realisation, and Sting pursues his trail of thought further.

“Yeah... And if I'd randomly passed out in the streets it would have only added to your assumption, that I'd been completely hammered... Hell, maybe I'd believed it myself... Baldy would have probably given my mind a make-over as well...”

For a second they look at each other, nothing but terror written on their faces, before Rogue reaches for his lover's hand with fingers that just won't refrain from shivering ever lightly and softly bumps their foreheads together.

 

“It all adds up... They wanted me repulsed and hurt and you ashamed and desperate, and that would have destroyed us, sooner or later.

But Baldy screwed up... The idiot short-circuited when you entered the stage obviously conscious and damn pissed, and ended up nearly killing me.”

The dark haired boy recounts pensively as the pieces slowly come together in an ugly, vile picture of hatred and malevolence.

 

“Yeah... Jiemma had probably been surveying the guy one way or another, and finding one of his strongest mages almost falling to his death didn't seem to amuse him at all. But do you honestly think, he'd go to such lengths as to actually kill the guy?”

 

Sting only shoots him a tell-tale look, one eyebrow raised, as if asking: “For real?” before he chuckles mirthlessly: “Yes, that's actually what I'm thinking. Either as a punishment or to get rid of any evidence and the sole witness; but I'm certain he had someone take out Baldy... We had no time to examine the body, but the cut in his throat seemed darn precise... Someone definitely knew how to handle a dagger...”

He throws his lover another long, meaningful glance, patiently waiting for Rogue to eventually make the connection, and when he finally does, a stunned “No way...” falls from his trembling lips.

“You mean... Dobengal?”

Sting, however, only shrugs impassively, stating: “Maybe, maybe not... But he's like Master's personal guard... Not that the old perv needed one... So why not also his private assassin, should the need arise?”

 

The Shadow Dragon Slayer feels the ground slowly breaking away beneath his feet, a nameless threat stirring deep down below, and only now does he grasp the full extend of the repugnant, ruthless plan that had been woven around them, and it leaves him with his body faint and his heart aching.

The need to have Sting close becomes unbearable within the second, and only when he has the blonde safely in his arms, his face buried in the golden strands, does the sudden onslaught of pure panic lessen.

 

“We could have lost one another that night, in more than only one way...”

He whispers shakily as he tightens his hold and blocks out any sensation safe for the other's presence and lets the second heart beat thrumming against his chest comfort him.

Something hard and unforgiving enters his features; something ruthless and cruel, born from a protectiveness and love so heart-felt, honest and fierce as befitting of a dragon.

Then he presses a firm, lingering kiss to Sting's crown, and all but growls:

“Seems like it's really gonna come down to “Us against the world”. If our suspicions prove to be the truth, Jiemma won't call it quits just like that. So we have to be careful. Like really careful... There's not a single person we can trust outside of this room... Everyone could be deceiving us, everyone could mean us ill... “

 

“Yeah, you're right...” the White Dragon Slayer mutters, and his voice, too, is rough with helpless wrath and fear.

“It's just the four of us, so we have to make sure to look after each other. And we mustn't allow any one to drive us apart. I know, I don't need to tell you that, but let me do so anyway...

I would never hurt you, no matter what. I would never betray you, leave you or act against your will... So if anyone wearing my face ever does so, I want you to give his ass a good trashing!”

 

For a moment all that answers him, is a ragged intake of breath, then Rogue gently tilts his head up and whispers against his lover's lips:

“Just so you know... The same goes for me. I'd shield you with my life and I won't forgive whatever dares to harm you. I'd never lie to you or disregard your consent, because your trust is one of the most valuable things you've ever given to me and I wouldn't break it, come what may.”

Softly he closes in, as he speaks to seal their oath with a kiss and the sensation of Sting's lips moving so warm and certain against his own; so honest and longing and free from hesitation plucks at his heart-strings and illuminates his very core.

 

And even though the shock is still nesting deep down their bones, even though another burden has just settled crushingly on their shoulders and both were painfully reminded just how godforsaken and alone they were in the harsh, cruel world of Sabertooth, there is still a pristine, gentle light flickering in the secluded space between their beating hearts.

 

It's what has kept them caring and compassionate until now, what had guided them through countless hardships and nightmares – it's what ever Jiemma didn't manage to defile of their innocence and gentleness, nurtured by their unwavering, unconditional love for each other.

It's the torch brightening their life and they must protect it at all costs.

 

So the day they stared into death's ugly face also marks the point where they started building walls and defences around the small precious bonfire and with it whatever remained of their humanity.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everybody!
> 
> Stay safe and take care!
> 
> Dearest greetings, TGA


	25. And though our hearts are frozen, we still keep bleeding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have sold my innocence to free your heart, as you have sold your body to keep mine whole...  
> Whe have mingled with the vile onces, tainted and defiled our cores, but still we cling to this dim hope of ours...  
> And yet...  
> How many lives can we still sacrifice, how many bodies can we still pile up, before the scale starts sinking?  
> They're already weighind us down, and the only thing we can throw into the other tray is one trembling life, so hollow and drained it couldn't outweigh a feather.  
> We're doomed, but if we're going down, we're going down together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, everyone... And sorry for taking so damn fucking long to update... My notebook broke down and I had to use a spare one, where several keys weren't working, so I had to make do with awkward keyboard-combinations and it really slowed me down.
> 
> But, as a small comensation, this Chapter is a) so damn fucking long, I don't even know where to start and  
> b) we've made a lot of progress again, as we find ourselves a couple of years in the future.  
> I've actually wanted to write only one Chapter of flash-backs, but then it became obvious, that I had to add more than one to make the changes in their characters believable, so we'll be jumping back and forth between past and present for the next few Chapters as well.  
> Please tell me, if this is too confusing or disrupts the flow too much, then I'll rewrite it, but right now this was the only way I saw fit to continue the story.  
> But, as always, any criticism is highly welcomed, appreciated and craved. 
> 
> So... here it comes, the next part of Sting's and Rogue's never ending nightmare...
> 
> This time starring: a fucking lot of vilence, references to non-con on minors and mental break-downs.
> 
> Be safe everyone and enjoy....

„Excuse me…“

The first time the quiet voice rings throughout the constant low hustling and buzzing of the cafeteria, Rogue doesn’t even realize, that it’s directed at him, and thus doesn’t bother looking up from the book he’s currently buried himself in.

But then the question is repeated, a little more timid; a little more hesitant and the already shy voice becomes even more insecure and shaky, but this time the Shadow Dragon Slayer actually notices that it’s him, who’s being addressed and his head snaps up irritatedly, brow furrowed, as he scowls at the sudden interruption.

“Huh…? What?” his response comes much gruffer and harsher, than he’d actually anticipated and only when he’s met with a forced gasp does he begin to wonder how very rude and calloused he must have appeared to her just now.

The petite, fair-skinned girl in front of him pales dramatically, her complexion suddenly rivalling her silver-white hair, while warm, hazel eyes widen in shock.

She shies back almost by instinct, bowing hastily, as her awkward lips fumble on words seemingly too big and heavy to leave her tongue.

“Rogue Cheney-sama…” She all but squeaks, bowing again hastily, while retreating a few steps further. “I… I had no idea… Sorry to bother you! I’ll leave you alone! Oh please forgive me for the interruption!”

The Shadow Dragon Slayer looks at her gob-smacked, taken aback by her frightened behaviour, silently wondering exactly how fucking unapproachable and intimidating he must have seemed to her to warrant such a reaction. She’s already a good deal away from his table huddled in the remotest corner of the room, but she’s still walking backwards, regarding him with small gestures of respect and placation, when Rogue actually comes to his senses and hurries to unclench his features.

“Hey… Wait up!” he calls after her, as he blinks himself back to the presence, looking apologetic and positively embarrassed. “Of course you can sit here… If you still want to, that is…”

Now her eyes widen even more, this time open disbelieve and wonder ghosting over her face, but she still comes walking back; slowly, carefully, her gaze never leaving Rogue’s face and only when he offers her a small, honest smile does she actually follow his invitation and drops down into the chair the dark haired boy pushes towards her.

She seems to be hovering on the utmost edge of the seat, posture rigid and tense, ready to jump at the first given occasion.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude…” Rogue mutters wile rubbing his head somewhat bashfully. “I guess I just wasn’t paying attention.”

When nothing but a nervous silence answers him, he looks the girl over once again, finding her nodding eagerly at him, but otherwise obviously unable to find her voice.

She looks a little bit like a deer in the headlights, and the realisation, that he is what she obviously seems to consider an incoming mortal threat hits him just like a speeding truck as well.

Has he always given off this air of abrasive aloofness?

 

Suddenly he’s painfully aware that it had been quite a while since he’d actually talked to someone other than Sting or the Exceeds – most conversations only an annoying necessity linked either to a mission or the most essential exchange of information with another Guild Member, so now, that he actually finds himself face-to-face with a stranger, he can’t for the life of him think of anything to say.

Meanwhile the girl seems to be getting more and more uncomfortable beneath his pensive gaze what with the way she’s fidgeting; her glance darting around, looking for a way out, and the ongoing silence grinds hideously on Rogue’s ears, unease making him queasy and antsy…

That is, until the small, curled up ball of pink, that had been snoozing carelessly on the chair right next to him starts stretching and yawning in the most adorable way possible, tubby paws rubbing the sleep out of huge, friendly eyes and then the Exceed hops over right into the girls lap without a warning.

“Hey Rogue” she squeals, obviously unperturbed by the high-pitch squeak her sudden intrusion elicited, “is that a new friend?” as she looks her over curiously.

And finally Rogue’s brain decides to stutter into action again in lieu of letting him sit there gaping like an idiot, so he hurries to stammer: “This is Yukino, she’s new to the Guild”

If Frosch’s sudden appearance already startled the silver haired girl, she now looks as if she was ready to pass out any moment, judged by the way her mouth drops open and her voice hitches as she whispers:

“Rogue Cheney-sama knows my name? You actually know who I am?”  There’s an eerie amount of awe in her tone, as if she’d just been graced by the Lord’s holy light personally, and she mutters his name with a reverence that doesn’t sit right with Rogue.

Too much fear is hidden beneath the unsettling veneration and once again the Shadow Dragon Slayer can’t help but wonder what the hell she saw in him.

Startled as he is, he only manages a tuneless: “Just Rogue’s alright… No need to be that formal.”

But she only stares at him as if he’d just proposed some kind of horrible blasphemy.

“Of course I know your name” He continues, when it becomes obvious that Yukino isn’t going to speak up. “I mean you were introduced like last week? I bet even a dim-whit like Sting couldn’t forget about you so quickly.”

He’d meant to lessen the tension in the air with the small joke but her reaction is almost the complete opposite – the girl goes even more rigid and breaths: “You’re allowed to talk about Sting-sama like that?”

And suddenly Rogue bursts into honest laughter, chuckling: “Not only do I talk about him like that; I talk _to_ him in much the same manner… It’s called joking, I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

His laugh manages what his words failed to achieve: Yukino finally relaxes; even dares to offer a timid smile herself, before eventually finding the heart to speak:

“I’m just surprised that the top-tier actually bothers with a rookie like me… I’d never expected either of you to even acknowledge my presence.”

“Why would we do that? We’re in the same Guild now… Plus, you’re a Celestial Wizard, and that alone makes you stand out. I’ve never met one before, so I’m curious… Would you tell me about your spirits?”

 

It works like a spell- all of a sudden her golden-brown eyes lighten up, her smile widens and colour floods her cheeks, as she carefully conjures up a small leather-brief-case where, held together by a huge key-ring, three golden and a variety of silver keys lay neatly nestled against the velvet lining.

Enthusiasm gradually replaces the stiff anxiety that clung to the girl like a second skin and her voice opens up almost like a flower-bud as it slowly rises to a silvery, bright melodic tune.

There’s elation in the way she talks about her spirits and a genuine affection to each and every one of her companions – a whole-hearted, almost childlike innocence obvious in her whole demeanour and it stabs Rogue’s heart with a pang of sudden, unabated pain.

What was someone so blissfully unstained, considerate and kind-hearted doing in this hell-hole that came to call itself a Guild, of all places?

He nearly wants to yell at her to get the fuck out of here; to run as long as Jiemma couldn’t get his filthy hands on everything she’d ever held dear, but then again, what right did he have to belittle her like that?

The fact, that she was allowed into the Guild alone stood proof that she had to be a highly skilled wizard and she’s old enough to know, at least partially, what she was getting herself into – Sabertooth had acquired a certain reputation throughout the whole of Fiore…

He’s still smiling at her somewhat woefully, when Yukino suddenly stops midsentence, as if she came to realize only now, that she’d been rambling on about the forts and quirks of her spirits for almost ten minutes, barely even allowing the Shadow Dragon Slayer to get in more than a handful of insignificant remarks, and the blood rushes to her cheeks in a glorious blush.

“I… I’m sorry, I spoke far too much… I got carried away and I’ve probably bothered you… Forgive me, Chey…” she’s stammering again; eyes glued to her hands, which writhe agonizingly in her lap, when the dark haired boy interrupts gently:

“Just Rogue’s fine… really… you don’t have to be that stiff… I ain’t gonna bite you, ya know? Besides… I asked you about your spirits, remember? So why would you bother me? The way you care about your spirits… that’s…” suddenly the words just won’t come, for it’s been a long time since someone had expressed open, honest affection within these walls and he envies her for still being able to do so; hasn’t craved anything so badly in a long time, than to just reach out to someone and exchange kind, friendly words with them, without being punished for it one way or another.

“They’re all my precious friends…” Yukino states quietly, effortlessly catching on to the abrupt change of atmosphere, as she looks the Shadow Dragon Slayer over compassionately.

“Never forget about that….” He only mutters lowly as he pointedly avoids her deep, searching eyes; irrationally fearing that this girl with the gentle, kind heart of hers would be able to read his each and every thought from his expression in one single glance.

 

She’s silent for a long moment, keeps on studying his features while carefully petting Frosch, who’d snuggled up against her all cosy and content, before she utters mindlessly:

“How strange…” and only when Rogue cocks his head with a little “Huh?” does she realize, that she’d just voiced her thoughts aloud.

At once she’s back to hasty, flustered stuttering, as she almost trips over her words, trying to make up for her blunder.

“Ah… I… uh… it’s nothing…” The Shadow Dragon Slayer pays the stammering no heed for it’s obvious, that only moments ago she’d seemed all calm and collected, lost deep in thoughts but still focused on him and now he wants to know…

“What’s strange?” He asks quietly, one eyebrow raised, dark red eyes never leaving hazel-brown ones.

And maybe she actually manages to read his heart, finds the warm well of kindness, gentleness and concern there, or it’s the genuine, unprejudiced interest in her person hidden in his soothing, rich voice, but suddenly she finds herself complying almost helplessly.

“It’s funny… before I left my home-town for Sabertooth, many a friend had warned me about the people in this Guild… I’ve always been told to stay clear of the more powerful, famous mages for they were the most…” she pauses to chew on her lower lip hesitantly for a moment, before continuing, her voice barely more than a whisper. “For they were the ones most cruel. Especially the Twin Dragons… people everywhere told me you were easily irritated, harsh, short-tempered…

But now that I’ve met you… You’re actually really nice… So… It’s strange… Maybe the folks are just afraid, because you’re so much stronger than them…” she trails off quietly, but Rogue barely even listens to her anymore; his chest aching dully with a familiar pain.

It’s not that she wasn’t right… They had become harder and more and more calloused with everything and everyone around them ever since the incident in Crocus four years ago, and now he’s painfully reminded, that people were genuinely afraid of them.

The realisation hurts with a sharp, hot searing throb – and yet, it also stokes a twisted, ugly satisfaction sweltering in the darker parts of his soul; for each person who feared them meant one less threat endangering their sanctuary…

 

He’s still searching for a reply, when a whirlwind of blond strands and light-blue, flamboyant garment comes waltzing right towards him, snapping:

“So, that’s where you’ve been lazing around! Been looking for you for almost an hour. Would it kill you to leave a fucking note before you wander off to sulk in solitude? Now get your ass up, we got work to do…”

A soft, high-pitched squeak has the White Dragon Slayer spin around instantly and he eyes the timid girl coolly, grumbling: “And who’re you?”

“Be civil, you damn moron…” Rogue intervenes, before shooting Yukino an apologetic grin. “That’s Yukino, she’s new to the Guild… Master introduced her two weeks ago, if you may wanna remember.”

Sting, however, only shrugs impassively, mumbling an irritated “Whatever…” while he grabs Rogue’s wrist not too gently and all but yanks him to his feet. “Would you get moving now or do I have to write a formal invitation? We’re late… And if we mess up this job because of you slacking off, I’ll kick your damn butt.”

They’re out of the door before either has a chance to say a word of fare-well; only Frosch chimes a sweet: “Nice meeting you, Yukino! See you later!” before she hurries after the two boys, leaving behind a seriously dumb-struck and somewhat upset Celestial Wizard.

 

But Yukino doesn’t really get a moment to compose herself, for within the next second an angry, violent voice booms throughout the Guild Hall; the echoes trembling between the thick, heavy walls, leaving nothing but an eerie silence in their wake, as every last single mage in the bar goes perfectly still, and only a few heart-beats later something gets flung forcefully through the massive door.

She can only perceive a blur of rich, deep red clothes and golden hair, before the shape hits the ground hard and wheezing breaths startle the icy silence.

Jiemma follows close behind, his steps stomping, aggressive and vicious; breaths snorting and eyes frozen in cold blooded murder, as he yells: “What did you do, you goddamn piece of shit? Did you whore your ass out to those damn fags over at Blue Pegasus? Did you suck some cocks at their disgusting little club? Or how come, that this pathetic freak they have for a Master would dare to compliment you right in front of my eyes!”

A rough kick sends the struggling figure, still curled up on the ground and barely clinging to consciousness flying into the opposite wall with a sickening, bone-grinding noise and Yukino finds herself petrified by the whole terrible scene; unable to move a single muscle even though her heart tells her to help the poor guy that was currently being beaten to a pulp.

“I’ll teach you… This is a Guild where only the strongest will prevail, where weakness won’t be tolerated and I’ll be damned if I ever allowed guys sucking other guys dicks in its ranks!”

With that he fists into the collar of the motionless figure, yanking him up easily and only now does she realize, that the man that hangs bloodied and weak in their Master’s iron grip is no other than Rufus Lore, another one of the top five mages of Sabertooth and with increasing horror she begins to wonder, what would happen to a no-one like her, if she screwed up, when Jiemma would even treat his most skilled wizards like that.

 

Meanwhile, the huffing, brutish form that is their Master is already retreating further into the building, logging Rufus’ comparatively light form along effortlessly and without mercy, as he keeps on uttering threats and almost rabid obscenities.

The blonde man manages to lift his head shakingly, clouded eyes frantically searching the room, until they linger on a spot close to the door and a barely visible smile graces his lips. It’s gone as soon as it’s even appeared, and in the next moment his head sags down and his body goes limp.

When Yukino glances over to the door she finds it deserted, but as she squints into the dimly lit corridor beyond, she’s certain, she’d seen a tall, muscular shape walking down the hallway with angry, quick steps; sparks of a light, greenish blue glistening throughout the dark whenever the fleeting lamp -light met wild strands of unruly hair…

 

For a breathless couple of minutes she just sits there in her secluded little corner, petrified and shaken by what she’d just witnessed, unable to ease the tremors out of her fingers.

When she finally looks around the room, no one else is meeting her eyes; everyone just keeps on staring at their feet in trembling, fearful silence, until a distant, heavy thud from a humongous door falling shut, reverberates through the Guild Hall and all at once the room erupts into loud, chaotic chatter.

For a second she tries to pinpoint, why exactly the voices around her cause her skin to crawl, but then she realizes, that the change is too abrupt, too forced to be natural and there is a nervous, imminent fear hidden in every ones tone, while the laughter seems false, shrill and almost hysteric.

The rapid turnaround of the general mood frightens her and she presses herself a bit further into the safety of the alcove, when suddenly she makes out two silhouettes outside the window; their shapes nothing more than shadows behind thick curtains, yet clearly visible to her.

The window in question was facing the rundown fringe of the training grounds and she begins to wonder, who’d be lurking about there and why, so she carefully peaks through the blinds.

At first she can’t find anyone on the weed-covered, secluded corner, but then something stirs in the shadows to her right and to her surprise she spots Sting and Rogue half hidden in the sheltering shade of the building, both almost melting into the wall and the whole atmosphere about them has changed.

 

From what she can see, a soft, sad smile plays over Sting’s lips and his hands cradle the Shadow Dragon Slayer’s face carefully, as he brings their foreheads together.

The unforgiving hardness in his gaze has all but vanished, given way to an achingly melancholic tenderness and now his fingers seem so very gentle as they trail over the other boy’s cheekbones, not even remotely resembling the cold, ruthless grip he’d maintained on Rogue’s wrists only moments ago.

He’s obviously whispering something, for his lips appear to be moving, and when he reaches out to retrieve a fine silver chain from beneath his partner’s black shirt, the dark haired boy closes his eyes, and allows the tips of their noses to brush against each other.

In the next moment the blonde presses a small peck to the pendant, then letting it slide back down against Rogue’s chest, as an incorporeal wisp of shadows seems to play with the shimmering gem adorning his left ear.

They remain like that for a couple of transfixed moments, just leaning against one another, breathing, feeling… then Rogue presses a soft kiss to the corner of Sting’s eye, while the blonde lets his lips brush against his brow and in the next second they’ve all but vanished, leaving Yukino behind wondering, if she had just imagined them being there after all.

 

The weather is still warm outside, the sun bright and golden in the endless September-skies, and yet Sting finds himself shivering.

In his grasp pale, pale fingers feel just as cold and clam as the ice-block apparently weighing somewhere deep down inside his guts and even though he ceaselessly tries to ease the life back into Rogue’s hands, the digits remain awfully chilled and keep on quaking ever so subtly.

Both of them had witnessed Jiemma’s outburst right after they’d left the bar and even though they know that Rufus had probably been dragged down to the pit to face God-knows what horrors, they’re nothing but relieved, that it isn’t them; that they’d managed to get away once again and the realization that they just can’t bring themselves to actually feel sorry for their Guild Mate anymore is what has the Shadow Dragon Slayer’s stomach in churning knots.

Sting is still quietly leading the way, gently ushering him along, but if the way his jaws keep on grinding is anything to go by, he, too, is upset about what just went down at the Guild Hall.

Scenes like these still seemed to get beneath the blonde’s skin deep enough to draw blood every time anew; the barely healed scars breaking open once more, and each time it cuts a bit further, each time it drains a bit more heart-blood and warmth, while the azure in his eyes freezes to a slightly harder shade of blue.

By now the once endless summer-sky that dwelled there, which Rogue could have lost himself in for days on end, has turned to an animus blur of unyielding ice and razor-sharp steel, the ruthlessness only seeping out of his gaze when he’s made sure, that no one but his most trusted, most beloved companions were to witness it.

Then and only then would the White Dragon Slayer allow the bright, shimmering light to reignite in his eyes, would let them trail over his lover’s face all gentle and soft light early April-sun; and sometimes in the dead of night, the ice would actually melt and bleed out in steady streams of salty waters trickling down his cheeks.

Rogue couldn’t tell how many of those hot, painful tears he’d kissed away over the years, but he can’t forget any of them and more than once he’d woken in the wee hours of the morning suddenly tasting salt on his lips.

 

So when he’d talked to Yukino earlier, had found her features still unguarded and her eyes full of warm, all-encompassing kindness, he couldn’t help but remember how blissfully innocent, tender and radiant Sting had looked before everything went to hell.

And not for the first time he fears, that all those things sweet, cheerful and caring that had once made his boyfriend appear almost dazzling and vibrant, were dying out like fading embers of a once flickering fire someone had slowly suffocated beneath layers upon layers of filth.

Thus he tries his hardest to keep those few remaining sparks from vanishing, always hoping that his poor attempts at kindling the flames were actually enough to hold Sting’s cracking form together and prevent his soul from freezing.

 

Catching up with his lover, he now starts carefully: “Hey… Sting… was it really necessary to treat Yukino all cold like that?”

The blonde only stares at him for a moment, one eyebrow raised, a puzzled look spreading on his face, as he shrugs thoughtlessly: “Why’d you care all of a sudden? I wasn’t aware we’ve taken to pampering the rookies now…Besides, if she can’t even handle a random someone giving her the cold shoulder she won’t survive a single week in this fucking Guild…”

The impassive answer elicits a dull ache somewhere deep down Rogue’s bones; even though his boyfriend speaks without malice, even though the answer was to be expected…

 

Since what had happened during the Grand Magic games four years ago, they hadn’t allowed anyone to enter their lives; had brusquely brushed off strangers and acquaintances alike, and fortified the crumbling walls built around their stuttering hearts.

A long time ago they’d vowed to keep one another safe, and in order to do so, they’d cut ties with any one safe for their Exceeds, and erected defence-mechanisms made from arrogance, ruthlessness, solitude and silence.

Within a year’s time they’d worked up the reputation of being volatile, easily angered and prone to violence and people learnt to stay clear.

At first it had been nothing but an act to them, something that made them chuckle, when an especially annoying journalist like Jason made a beeline for the other side of the road whenever spotting them even 100 yards away…

Or when some of the more importunate women nowadays crowding them - swooning and trying to enchant them with almost vulgar intrusiveness - suddenly caught their hostile glare and fled the scene hastily.

They’d laughed then – bright and honest, the warmth easily seeping back into their cores, as their features relaxed, but as time went by, it started taking longer and longer, until their gaze had softened and the harshness bled from their forms, until, unbeknownst to either of them, this sweet, pure kindness didn’t return altogether.

 

It hadn’t been long after; the year was x789, that the Corpse Tongue incident happened, and from that point on people were genuinely terrified of them…

The rumours that the Twin Dragons had taken out a whole Dark Guild all by themselves spread throughout the country like wildfire…

The fact in itself wouldn’t even have been all that horrifying, should have earned them some serious praise, had they bothered with leaving at least one survivor…

But when the Magic Council arrived at the scene, all they found were dead bodies and the two Dragon Slayers covered in blood…

Within a day’s time, the media went wild; a thousand stories popping up out of nowhere, every single one claiming to be true and based on the testimony of actual witnesses, but each more absurd and off-putting than the last one…

What no news-paper mentioned, however, were the two small, malnourished children clinging to the shaking boys tightly; and even though Sting and Rogue were quivering with exhaustion and shock, unresponsive to anyone calling out to them and their eyes frozen in what war-veterans would have called the “1000-yard stare”; they refused to hand the little ones over to anyone until their mother had appeared hours later.

                                                                                                                 

When they’d first burst into the Dark Guild’s head-quarter after weeks of arduous, tiring search, the boys had opted for defeating the bigger part of the mages without actually delivering fatal attacks, but the deeper they advanced into the labyrinth of gloomy, grime-covered hallways, the heavier the ominous feeling of incoming tragedy seemed to weigh on their shoulders.

Their intrusion had sent the whole Guild into a panicked frenzy, and the air around them had been suffocating with the stench of fear, pain, confusion and… death?

Both mages knew, they hadn’t killed anyone so far, and yet the oppressive scent of clotting blood and festering wounds clogged their tender airways until they started gagging and choking on the mere smell alone.

Even stranger, as they continued their way down into the head-quarter’s twisted core, the traces of violence hanging in the overwhelmingly thick air became stronger and stronger… until they finally saw…

They’d been heading down a long, barely lit hallway with numerous doors leading left and right; most of them wide open, some even hanging askew in their hinges, and when Sting and Rogue entered the first room, both froze solid in front of the almost surreal scene of abhorrence in front of them…

 

Beyond the heavy, fortified door they found the bodies of three children, none of them older than ten; chained to the wall, malnourished and bruised; the cuts in their throats still bleeding, as if they’d been killed only moments ago…

The opposite room revealed a similar scene, and the next one down the hall…  And the one after that…

By the time they’d found the fourteenth small, mistreated body, all feeling had left them; they just stumbled on because they had to, and because there was a slim chance, of still finding at least one of the kids alive.

The mission-report had never mentioned anything even remotely related to child-abduction, and yet - here they were, in a sealed away building, reeking of death and despair, with more than a dozen tiny, snuffed out lives bearing down on their sanity.

Rogue had never felt closer to just letting the crushing load he’d been carrying on his shoulders ever since Sting had sunken into his arms after that first night in the pit, weigh him down and grind him into the dust - the sight of bright red blood on small, frozen faces forever engraved into his heart - when he heard noises coming from the far-away part of the hallway; the part still shrouded in shadows.

He didn’t even wait for his partner to react, simply pressed forward into the darkness with a speed that might have put a lightning to shame, just in time to hear something shuffle about ahead.

Right at the end of the corridor two muffled voices were whispering, steps were to be heard and then another sturdy door creaked open.

A tiny, choked sob rang though the chaos of noises, a dying, terrible sound and in the next moment Rogue had charged without even thinking about it.

A couple of rash, unrestrained attacks later the forms of two lumpen, cruel-looking men hit the dirt-covered ground hard; but the Shadow Dragon Slayer barely paid it a heed; each of his keen senses trained on something hidden in the impenetrable darkness of the cell.

A foul smell of rotten straw, vile muck, and something unrecognizable, hit him dead on…

And somehow the stench immediately reminded him of the scent clinging to Sting’s skin whenever he’d returned from the pit…

The sensation caused new tremors to wreck his already unstable limbs, but still…he ventured forth; for he had caught a small, miserable whine somewhere in the blackness beyond…

But before he could take another step Sting was there by his side, his shaking fingers reaching mindlessly for Rogue’s lifeless hands, before a soft glow illuminated what must have been the most heart-breaking scene they’d ever come across on a mission…

The floor of the dungeon had been covered in decaying straw, the walls bare, except for chains dangling from the ceiling and in a faraway corner, almost melting into the shadows themselves, were two small, quivering forms – their faces gaunt and pale, every inch of skin covered in dirt – everything about them a painful sign of abuse and neglect.

The mere sounds of their racing pulses, however, almost sent both boys to their knees, agonizing chokes rising in their throats, while searing hot tears of sheer relieve trailed down their cheeks…

But as soon as they tried to approach the frightened, distressed children, the older one, a boy of about seven years of age, pulled the terribly skinny body of a slightly younger girl close and hissed at them warningly.

Both stopped immediately, called out to the kids quietly, while they stated their names and tried their hardest to convince them that they were there to help – alas it didn’t do shit and it was to be expected…

The longer they stayed, the more they did upset the shaken children, but the mages were well aware, that they had to check them for injuries and get them out of this goddamn shithole, so they kept on coaxing and soothing – to no avail.

After almost ten minutes of fruitless endeavour they were nearly at their wit’s end, when a last, desperate idea came to Rogue…

Slowly he retreated from the room, walking backwards with calm, measured steps, motioning for Sting to keep up the dim glow that basked the cell in soft, pure light.

 

Once out in the hallway, the Shadow Dragon Slayer called out to the Exceeds, whom they’d left behind in the Main Hall to stand guard and warn them, should anyone of the incapacitated mages get back up and try something funny.

“Listen, guys…” he instructed with an unstoppable trembling in his tone, “Close your eyes and follow my voice! Don’t look, I’m begging you… Just follow my voice… We’re right here, at the end of the hallway… We need your help!”

It didn’t take long for two tiny forms to emerge from the gloom and the Shadow Dragon Slayer breathed a heavy sigh of relieve upon finding both pairs of eyes squeezed shut.

He caught them with ease, carefully guiding the cats into the nightmarish room, where the children still clung to one another with silent tears streaming down their haggard faces.

“Thanks you guys….” Rogue breathed with a sigh oh so very tired and hurt, before his features hardened once again. “See those kids over there? They’ve been down here for god knows how long, and we don’t know what those bastards did to them, but they won’t let us come closer… Think you two could calm them down?”

He didn’t even receive an answer.

Lector and Frosch had already neared the upset, quivering forms crouched down in the filth, and even though the boy looked them over warily, the girl suddenly squealed: “Kitties! Look, Oni-chan, there’s kitties here…”

He didn’t respond, only pulled her closer and curled around her more firmly, but then the Exceeds had closed the distance and quietly addressed the pair…

“Hey… don’t worry…” Lector started, his voice as low and gentle as possible, and yet both of them flinched… “The kitty’s talking…” the little girl muttered, while her brother moved himself in front of her protectively.

“We’re no bad guys…” Frosch chimed in, carefully nudging the girl’s small, pale hands with her head, “We’re here to help! This is Rogue, and that’s Sting… they’re Dragon Slayers and they always beat up the villains… It’s our job! So, please… don’t be afraid!”

The light, gentle voices managed what neither of the boys had pulled off so far: the children relaxed ever so slowly, allowing the cats to climb into their laps and hug them firmly, while the tension gradually left their quaking bodies.

And finally, finally, the kids eyed the Dragon Slayers again, this time the tiniest bit less hostile, carefully inquiring: “Is it true? Are you here to help us?” and both mages could only nod, throats tight and raw with unshed tears and unyelled screams of agony and anger.

“If you’re lying…” the boy continued; steel in his voice and eyes ablaze; as he clutched his sister to his chest. “If you’re lying, I’ll hurt you! My dad taught me his secret fighting techniques!”

“Don’t worry.” Lector mumbled quietly, as he carefully nudged his ribs, the chestnut-furred head pressed into the small hands. “They won’t hurt you, we promise. They’re wizards from the strongest guild in Fiore and they’ve been sent here to take those awful guys down… They’re the good ones.”

The boy still eyed them suspiciously for a long moment of utter silence, before he mumbled… “The strongest Guild in Fiore? You guys from Sabertooth?” and the Twin Dragons nodded hastily, while Frosch laughed: “Yup, yup… Sabertooth…”

They exposed their guild marks then, motions deliberately slow and cautious, and after a few moments that seemed like centuries to the mages, the little ones actually started to trust them.

“Can you take us back to Mommy?” the girl asked, between sniffles, as she clutched Frosch to her chest, and when Rogue took a few steps towards her, she raised her arms and wriggled away from her still scowling brother.

But before the Shadow Dragon Slayer could even break her shackles, let alone lift her into his arms, too many things happened at once.

 

All of a sudden the hallway was crowded with six mages that had seemingly popped up out of nowhere, their faces splattered with blood and their eyes devoid of humanity.

Sting burst into White Drive almost instantly, his stark, radiant light finally illuminating the room completely for the very first time, so when his eyes fell on the children, he finally saw the whole damage done to them in the harsh contrast of nothing but black and white – saw them bound to the wall with heavy iron chains around their ankles, their skin broken and bruised, their bodies bare and exposed beneath torn, filthy rags that didn’t even manage to cover the most vital parts; and he almost broke down…

He regained his composure forcefully, pushed back the blood-lust humming in his veins, until his sensitive nose detected the tiniest trace of dried up, old semen coming from the straw, the walls, everywhere at once, and suddenly he snapped.

 

The moment Sting lost it felt like a thunderbolt running throughout the room - a deadly, merciless static - and the growl that rose in his clenched throat was inhumane and unforgiving.

He still had enough of his wits about him, not to slaughter his opponents right in front of the kids, but once he was out in the hallway and out of their line of sight, he let the primal, visceral rage take over and his attacks became measured and precise in cold blooded, mindless wrath.

 

Feeling his other half losing himself in a wild torrent of vengeance, pain and fury made something deep inside of Rogue’s heart resonate with the waves of unlimited, thoughtless violence flooding his senses, until he felt his head swimming, his draconic instincts ushering him to fight nail and teeth until hot, salty blood trickled down his throat; but the sight of the two frightened children now pressing themselves into the further-most corner of the room had him keep his temper in check.

He crouched down slowly in front of the kids, his hands landing gently on their shoulders; and to his utter relieve they didn’t flinch or shy back; just allowed the touch with wide, impassive eyes.

But suddenly a certain scent hit him full force as it pierced through his heart while a nauseating sensation of utter terror exploded deep down inside of his guts, when he caught the scent…

It was the only fragrance clinging to Sting since forever, that he just couldn’t place… the one, the White Dragon Slayer had tried to hide under a thick veil of heavily scented soap and cologne; and yet Rogue had detected traces of it on the blonde’s skin for years upon years…

And only now, in a foreign dungeon, miles away from home; with over a dozen little bodies drenched in its stench, did he finally recognize the smell for what it was…

Then a veil of blood-red, pulsating rage lowered itself over his eyes as something sinister obviously dwelling somewhere inside his heart took over and Rogue’s consciousness waned…

 

When he finally came to his senses, there’d been at least twenty motionless bodies scattered around his silently trembling form, all of their corpses mutilated to some degree and a steady stream of blood dripping from his hands.

On the other side of the hall Sting was breathing heavily between desperate, aching sobs, relentlessly kicking the stomach of a huge mage with a protruding ribcase and bulging muscles…

He was obviously dead… and yet the White Dragon Slayer kept on attacking, tears streaming down his face; his breathing erratic and staggering, until Rogue had stumbled over to the quaking figure of his lover and forcefully pulled him away from the beaten body.

“That’s enough, Sting…” he mumbled quietly, gently restraining the blonde by wrapping his arms around the slim waist, all the while he pressed his own tear-stained, dirt-streaked face into the dip between his shoulder blades.

“That’s enough…” he repeated, voice breaking, tune absolutely defeated and done for, and slowly; ever so slowly Sting complied.

With staggering motions he turned around, his eyes blood-shot, haunted and glassy, and his knees suddenly started shaking on the last fraying thread of strength.

As he felt his lover swaying dangerously, Rogue lowered both of them to the ground carefully and pulled the White Dragon Slayer close, his fingers fisted almost desperately into his hair, and only when Sting wrapped his arms around him, did he realize that he was sobbing uncontrollably.

How long they’d remained on the floor – the puddle of black, slick blood around them rapidly cooling – neither could tell afterwards, for the only thing that penetrated the haze numbing their minds was the raging heart-beat of their other half; so they simply held onto each other and waited for the nightmare to pass.

But when Lector’s strangely small voice echoed through the hallways, calling them back from the nothingness their consciousness was drifting towards, the corpses were still there and the blood was still dripping from their fingers.

“Did we… did we just kill—“, Rogue whispered tonelessly, eyes wide and staring, when Sting interrupted him firmly.

“Don’t…” he cradled the pale cheeks with hastily cleaned hands, as he looked his lover dead in the eye, his gaze unyielding and hard as stone.

“Don’t go there, now! Those guys had it coming. They’re outlaws, so no one could punish us for their deaths. Hell, they killed all those children… Don’t you dare wasting even one single tear on them. We gotta take care of the little ones, make sure they’re okay… They need us now!

 You can always break down afterwards; I’ll be right there to catch you. But right now, _we all_ need you here with us. So be brave, my love…” And as he leaned his forehead against Rogue’s, his fingers gently caressing his face, he added a soft: “Be brave, just for a little longer…”

It took a second for the Shadow Dragon Slayer to compose himself… Then, however, he took a deep, tired breath and nodded ever so slightly against Sting’s brow.

“You’re right… Let’s see if we can find something to clean up the blood… We both look horrible!”

 

Back in the damp, dark cell, they’d carefully freed the children from the chains, while Rogue treated their injuries with motions as slow and gently as his still violently trembling hands would allow.

In the meantime Sting had retrieved their supplies from a bag at the entrance of the Guild and was now quietly offering food and water, a sad smile gracing his features when the starved kids wolfed it down greedily.

The boys managed to coax their names out of them – Malina and Marek - together with some rough information on how they got here…

They’d been out in the woods, not far from their home, playing at a brook, when someone had seized them from behind, a vile smelling rag pressed to their faces … and then they’d found themselves in this very cell.

They’d been there for almost three months.

Scarcely any food or water, and the men used to play with them, but the games weren’t pleasant…

 

“It’s okay, now…” Sting mumbled carefully, as he shed his jacket and wrapped it tightly around the little boy, who was shaking with cold and exhaustion.

Next to him, the girl had already snuggled up against Rogue’s chest, her eyes drooping, and neither of the children struggled when the boys lifted them up to finally flee the terrible, cruel place.

The stench of death wouldn’t leave them for days.

 

When they eventually emerged from the heavy, fortified doors of the Guild, the sunlight blinded them for a moment of dazzling, purest brilliance, but as soon as they’d blinked the stinging brightness out of their eyes, they found themselves surrounded by at least two battalions of Rune Knights, their weapons drawn and directed at them; their features tight and nervous.

They couldn’t even exchange one single glance, before two Captains already hurried towards them with an unspoken demand of obedience and respect in their steps, as they addressed them harshly and took them into custody without further ado.

The boys, however, refused to breath a single word, kept curling themselves around the half-asleep, quivering forms in their arms and whenever a Rune Knight tried to take one of the children from them, either of them hissed threateningly, while simultaneously soothing the painful wailing the respective child had let out.

Only when it became clear, that the Dragon Slayers wouldn’t forego their adamant, protective pose and the children wouldn’t allow anyone else to come even near them, they’d reluctantly sent for their mother.

And to her, finally, Sting and Rogue entrusted the children, before eventually turning towards the Council with features set in determination.

 

What followed where hours upon hours of tiring interrogation, while the Council Members asked the same questions over and over again, and the Twin Dragons gave the same answers each time anew.

They’d separated the boys, but thanks to their exceptional hearing, they could still make out the words of the other and thus their statements matched perfectly.

But the authorities still seemed unsatisfied… 

So they went on and on, until; without warning, without even a single sound leaving his lips, Sting suddenly fainted.

 

Three soldier were not enough to keep Rogue from rushing to his side, and he would have fought with the fierceness of a dragon, if they had tried to restrain him; but by the time he’d fallen to his knees next to his lover’s motionless form, no one was stopping him.

With trembling fingers he searched for a pulse, just to find Sting’s heart racing erratically and weak, his face ashen, lips a greyish-blue and cold sweat on his brow…

“Someone…” he bellowed hoarsely as he guided the limp form into the shock-position, “Someone carefully lift his legs and keep them elevated.”

Then he let a damp rag trail slowly over the blonde’s forehead and gently tapped his cheek.

With blood now steadily flooding Sting’s head it didn’t take more than a couple of minutes before his lids started twitching and fluttering, but to Rogue it seemed like hours upon hours.

“Hey, Sting…” he eventually called out quietly, hands never leaving his lover’s face, “Sting… can you hear me?”

For a seemingly endless moment he received no reaction, then the hazy, blue eyes gradually focused on him, a strained, slurred whisper falling from cracked lips: “Rogue... “

“Hey… you okay?” the Shadow Dragon Slayer inquired with concern open and raw in his voice.

“Ears… ringing…” Sting mumbled groggily. “Everything’s spinning…”

“Yeah… I know…” the dark haired boy replied lowly, as he reached for the blonde’s hand without even thinking about it.

 “Wait a moment, take deep breaths; it’ll get better any second… You’re in shock… so we need to get some blood back to your heart…”

With that he glanced over his shoulder at the guy tasked with supporting Sting’s legs, only to find him already a few feet away, his expression unfazed as he sauntered off, and when he spotted the way the bastard had obviously just dropped his boyfriend’s still weak and unresponsive limbs as soon as the blonde had come to, he had to force himself not to up and kick the asshole’s teeth in.

Instead he just snapped: “Hey, did I tell you to lower his feet? I don’t think so, so do us both a favor and get the fuck back here, or I’ll make ya…” But the soldier just shrugged, as he walked off, so the Shadow Dragon Slayer left his place right beside his lover’s head, whispering a quiet, comforting: “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere… just gonna keep your legs up, alright?”

Before he carefully lifted the blonde’s willowy legs somewhat higher than his heaving chest, all the while he kept on massaging the blood back towards his center with firm, rhythmic strokes.

After that, it was a matter of seconds, until Sting was fully conscious, but while he was still trying to pick himself up, the Rune Knights were back, already closing in on him and firing away at them with their questions.

Before they could even finish their first sentence, however, a small, chubby woman suddenly burst into the tent, her eyes ablaze and her posture defiant, as she barked at the Captains with surprising fierceness.

 

“Stop that immediately! How long are you still planning on torturing those two? It’s obvious they’ve suffered a severe shock… Do both of them have to collapse until you bastards gonna let it go?”

“M’am…” one of the soldiers replied heatedly, “those two killed almost forty people single handedly… More than two dozen of them still…”

“Silence, private!” the commander snarled immediately, but suddenly Sting spit:

“Hold on… Forty people? It’s never been that many. No way…” then his eyes narrowed, as understanding sparked through his mind and his lips started quaking with ager. “Are you actually assuming that we’ve killed those kids?”

Rogue has rarely ever heard his voice like that- hostile and dangerous –but before he could intervene, the blonde has already continued:

“Why do you think, we’ve fought those guys this mercilessly? We told you, we found those kids like… like this and when those bastards started resisting…”

“And you two just snapped and killed them in a state of mindless fury… We know… We’ll examine the bodies and then we’ll see… You’ll be hearing from us. You may use our head-quarters to rest if you must, but we want you to return to your guild as soon as possible. You’re to stay there until further notice.”

“You’re putting them under arrest?” the woman chimed in again. “What for? Those boys risked their lives to save my children… What the hell have _you_ done all the time? They did your dirty work and now you’re punishing them?”

“Well, they probably don’t wanna have to explain, how it could have happened, that a Dark Guild could traffic children right beneath their noses for months on end!” Rogue added with a deep, dark hatred roughening his voice.

“Your mission-report never said a word about prisoners! We wouldn’t have barged in there like that, if we’d known they held a couple of small children hostage, dammit! But either you didn’t know or you were keeping vital details from us… and now they’re dead. And even though we didn’t kill them ourselves, it’s still our fault as well as it’s yours.”

“But now you wanna make us take the fall, so that your image won’t get damaged… So here’s what’s gonna happen: You leave us the hell alone, all charges dropped, and we will keep your vile little secret. Otherwise… well, we have certain acquaintances over at Sorcerer Weekly, who’d be delighted to reveal a nice, dirty scandal at the Council…”

Sting’s face was nothing but ice-cold stone, his voice sharp, cutting steel and never before has he spoken so harsh, so cruel and ruthless to anyone.

Rogue shivered nastily, but then the Council Members actually let them go and withdrew, all the while quietly whispering.

 

The Twin Dragons stumbled outside, uncertain where to go, what to do; their bodies screeching for rest, their heavy, bleeding hearts crying for quietness and peace, so when one of the officers hollered a rough: “Head-quarter’s that way. If you really have to make use of the invitation…” they’ve almost accepted it instead of having to spend the night outside, but a soft voice called out to them quietly.

“No… wait… Would you perhaps like to stay at our place?” It was the woman from earlier, but now her features appeared all warm, gentle and caring.

The Dragon Slayers only stared at her without understanding for a moment; both dumb-struck and dazed; before Rogue muttered: “Who’re you? Why’dchou help us?” and his voice was so, so tired.

Her gaze softened as she looked them over compassionately; then two timid, pale faces appeared from behind her, both children looking at them with shy, grateful eyes.

“Because you brought my children back…”

She whispered, her voice hitching and raw with held-back sobs.

“You treated their wounds and kept them warm… You even left your companions with them, so they’d be comforted. I don’t care what they say, that you did… To me you’re the saving grace I’ve prayed for.

You killed those guys?

I can’t thank you enough… I would have done the same thing, if I had the power to do so… I don’t have anything to offer to you, so let me at least give you shelter and a place to rest; you must be awfully exhausted… Name’s Irina, by the way…”

Neither of the boys denied it, neither had the strength to resist, so they silently let her guide the way through the meadows.

It didn’t take long for the children to start staggering over their own feet from weakness, and the boys scooped them up without even thinking about it, the reassuring warmth of the small bodies close to their hearts grounding and keeping them from breaking down right where they stood.

 

Once they found themselves at a table, that seemed to groan beneath the load of food set out in front of them, Rogue and Sting had mobilized the very last ounces of strength they’d left, their bodies heavy and leaden, a dry burn pricking at their eyes, but at least now they’d been given the chance to rinse off the blood, dirt and stench caking their skin.

They tried their best at polite chatter, but their answers still came scarce and short and Irina didn’t pry, simply looked at the small bundles curled up against her sides with a teary-eyed smile.

“You must have made quite the impression on them… While you were taking a shower, they wouldn’t shut up about how brave you were, how easily you defeated those bastards…”

She trailed off for a moment, running her hands through her kids’ hair, before continuing: “They haven’t opened up to anyone like that, not since their father died last year… If they took a liking to you like that, there’s no way you’d be the ruthless murderers the Council wants to make out of you…”

Both boys could only nod, before Rogue actually dropped his fork as he drifted off between two bites and Irina gently shooed them into the small spare bedroom, she’d prepared for them.

 

So within the darkness they lay, curled up against one another, limbs entwined, each holding the other as close as their wounds would allow, and neither of them knew, whose tears were trailing over his skin.

They were too exhausted for words, both miles beyond their limits, and even though neither had expected to sleep a wink that night, a quiet, gentle nothingness had claimed them, only a few moments after the thought passed their minds.

And for once fate took pity on them, and granted both boys a deep, dreamless slumber.

 

Sting woke slowly to early morning sunlight tickling his nose, and the first thing his sleep-addled brain realized, was that the bed seemed to have gotten smaller.

The tiniest bit more awake, he noticed that he’d been ushered to the very end of the mattress, half of his body already suspended over the edge, the bigger part of the blanket stolen from him and a warm body snuggled up against his chest.

“Hmmmph… Rogue…” he yawned, without even bothering to open his eyes. “Hey… move over… you’re almost pushing me out of bed…” When nothing but silence heeded his sleepy pleading, he tried feeling around, but found his hand gently restrained by somewhat cool, lax fingers, and only then did it dawn on him, that the form pressed up against him was far smaller than his lover, even if he’d curled up tightly, thus he actually pried his eyes open and his gaze widened in surprise at the sight that greeted him.

Unbeknownst to either of them, Marek and Malina must have sneaked into their bed at some point during the night, for Sting found them huddled together between him and his lover, while they kept Lector and Frosch clutched to them like stuffed animals.

Rogue, as well as he himself, had draped their arms loosely around the lithe forms, their hands joined on the comforter, heads resting against each other and the whole scene breathed a certain tranquility, a wholesomeness that he’d barely ever experienced before.

Not wanting for his lover to miss out on such a rare moment of surreal wonder, he gently squeezed the pliant fingers in his grasp, cautiously whispering:

“Hey, Rogue… Wake up!”

As always it took a moment for the Shadow Dragon Slayer to resurface from the darkness, and even then, he only cracked one eye open blearily, slurring: “Whas’ wrong?”

But when Sting smiled at him gently, his eyes shining with a bright, hazy contentment, as he gestured down to the narrow space between them and mouthed a soundless: “Look!” Rogue blinked himself awake and followed his lover’s gaze.

For a second confusion flitted over his face, but then his features softened and he breathed a tiny, amused: “What the hell? Where did _they_ come from?”

And the smile playing over his lips almost made up for the nightmare they just had live through.

“Dunno…” Sting mumbled in awe. “But they’re just so damn cute…”

Something warm glittered through his azure eyes, like sprites on an early morning in spring, and he just kept looking from the small tufts of light-brown hair to Rogue’s relaxed features and back.

For a while everything was quiet except for the chirping of birds outside; then the dark haired boy mused quietly:

“Sooo… are we gonna have the “Kids-talk” now?”

The White Dragon Slayer stared at him strangely for a moment, before he mumbled: “Do you want to?” and Rogue immediately spat a firm: “No fucking way in hell!”

Somehow his words stung more severely than the blonde had anticipated or could understand and his voice had already turned somewhat raw, when he answered: “So… you don’t like kids?”

But then Rogue’s gaze had softened, something warm and melancholic seeping into his expression, as he muttered: “That’s not what I meant… But as long as we’re still within a 500-miles radius of Jiemma Orland, I wouldn’t even dare to dream of a building a family. It’s too dangerous… At least for now… But just you wait… One day, we’ll have this place to call home… And then we can think about having kids, okay?”

For a small moment it showed, that Sting's brain still wasn't working properly, be it from an aftermath of fainting the previous day, or a deprivation of rest, but suddenly he asked completely dumbfounded:

"But how are we gonna have kids in the first place?"

Whereas the Shadow Dragon Slayer stared at him incredulously, quietly snorting: "Well, I guess we'll just have to keep making love and hope for the best..." but when nothing but silence and a wide eyed, confused stare were to follow, he sighed exasperatedly.

"Are you dense? We'll check the local orphanages and adopt them, you moron... What the fuck where you thinking?"

Sting only grinned somewhat bashfully, before he sobered up and something melancholic and distant seeped into his eyes. “Yeah... One day… But you’re right… it’s far too early to burden ourselves with that for now… I was just thinking…”

His lover squeezed his fingers carefully, warm red eyes lingering tenderly on the sun-kissed face, before he nodded with a yawn.

“You know what it’s also way too early for? Getting up! Go back to sleep, my love. Who knows when we’ll get another chance to do so…”

 

They’d said their farewells later the next morning, after they’d done some direly needed repairs around the house that proved too heavy for a single mother of two.

They’d been trying to thank Irina time and again for her hospitality, alas the feisty woman wouldn’t hear any of it. She simply pulled them close, refusing to let go for what seemed like an eternity, as if she’d felt that both boys needed and craved this silent kind of comfort with every fiber of their kindness-depraved, mistreated hearts, and for a second she was certain they’d come undone right there, when suddenly her kids wriggled into the tiny space between them, both clinging tightly to the mages waists.

They picked them up once again, Sting whirling the screeching boy around, while the timid girl threw her arms around Rogue’s neck, as she played with the pendant dangling over his chest.

“Are you coming back to visit us?” she whispered hesitantly, obviously delighted when she found the Shadow Dragon Slayer nodding solemnly.

 “We’ll make sure to check on you, whenever we’re in the area. Until then please be careful, lil’ princess, okay?”

She squealed at the remark, her head nudging his shoulder eagerly, and she nuzzled into the thick, grey scarf slung around his neck.

He’d already noticed that Malina seemed to love the soft, heavy piece of fabric, as she kept it draped around her shoulders like a blanket the whole day. So he parted with it easily; let the thick, fluffy wool almost swallow her up, as he eased the scarf over her head.

“Here, keep that for me, will you? And when anyone ever hurts you again, you call us! Contact the Guild and we’ll be right there!”

The girl eyed him in open wonder, her tiny face almost hidden beneath layers upon layers of storm-grey loops, but there was unabashed gratefulness in her gaze, as she nodded shyly.

Sting, however, had already conjured up his trusty, well-kept pocket-knife out of nowhere, and handed it over to Marek with a small, encouraging gesture.

“You’re the man here now…” he stated squarely. “And you’ve been really, really brave, protecting your sister like that. We’re really proud of you! But next time, anyone’s tryna hurt you, I want you to have a weapon. Use it only if you really have to! Don’t do anything rash; don’t try playing the hero… But if you ever find yourself in a similar situation, I want you to have a fighting chance. So… Here, take good care of it.”

And with that they were on their way, hearts still too heavy, still too sore to dwell on what had happened behind the doors of Corpse Tongue, but the tension on how Jiemma would judge the outcome of their mission already started to bear down on them.

 

When they’d finally made it back to Sabertooth after three arduous, cold, rainy days on the road, however, nothing could have ever prepared them for the kind of welcome they were given.

Of course Jiemma had wanted to see them immediately, had looked them over with those white, impassive eyes of his, and both Dragon Slayers were already expecting the onslaught of fists, that would start wrecking their flesh any second.

Any moment, now…

A century of silence passed, while the Master only stared at them pensively, his face unreadable, then suddenly:

“Not bad!” And neither of the boys could have flinched worse, if he’d punched them…

“Well done! You showed those scumbags, that Sabertooth is not to be trifled with! The whole country now speaks our name with the due respect. I must say, I’m impressed...”

 

Rogue and Sting stood there completely petrified… Had they been hallucinating, or had their Master actually just praised them for the very first time ever?

The blood of twenty-something men clung to their hands, the Council had almost locked them up and charged them with men-slaughter and now they were being praised?

They must have lost their minds somewhere down in the twisted labyrinth of Corpse Tongue’s Guild Hall…

Jiemma’s words kept flowing over their heads like an endless, malevolent tide tearing at their sanity, daunting them to crumble to the floor, but the mages stood their ground, even though they had to clamp their mouths shut forcefully a couple of times to avoid gaping…

They’d expected a serious punishment, but they’d received praise…

They were certain, they would be beaten to within an inch of their lives for enraging the Magic Council, but instead they were presented with the sudden permission to leave the dorms and rent their own place.

Hell, their Master even allowed them to “keep their damn cats, if they really had to…”

 

It was as surreal a situation as it could get, but then again, when did Jiemma ever make sense to any of them?

The lesson, however, was one they learnt just as quickly as the countless ones written in blood…

The rougher they acted, the more people actually came to fear them, the safer they were…

From outside threats. From their Guild Mates. And most of all from their Master…

So they tried to walk the line… Tried to only appear calloused, ruthless and harsh, without letting the gentleness within their hearts die down…

 

But as time went by, act slowly became reality and neither Sting nor Rogue even realized it.

It didn’t suit them, this newfound rashness, and sometimes either of them would ponder their behavior in the wee hours of the night, mourning the compassion, the kindness, once prevalent in their voices, and then either would think about the small warm bodies of two children as they clung to them tremblingly, the image sending a short-lived sparkle of warmth throughout his heart, until the memories of a pile of bodies arose from somewhere deep down their hearts and they quickly locked it away, the coldness now a safe wall to hide behind.

And only when either of them watched his sleeping lover and pulled him close, he finally remembered, why they were forcing themselves to endure all this.

To keep one another safe, they’d once vowed to go through hell and back with their head held high… And they were adamantly set on protecting what was most dear to them; and if it should cost them their humanity; by now they’d deemed it a fairly low price to pay.

 

So, as time went by, Jiemma kept on forming them as he pleased; instilled them with the same emotionless hardness, the same ruthlessness that dwelled within his own sinkhole of a heart by exploiting their desperate attempts to keep the respective other out of harm’s way, until his Twin Dragon’s were just as hard-eyed, short-tempered and violent, as he’d always wanted them to be; the last sparks and embers of what once used to be caring, gentle souls only flickering when a strong emotion blew new life into them.

But it never lasted long…

 

So, now, as Rogue trails behind his lover, deeply lost in thought, his hand limp and irresponsive in Sting’s hold, he wonders, not for the first time, how long it’ll still take for their hearts to freeze solid and the last small specks of light to leave their darkening cores.

 

Little does he know, that the mission they’re headed for, on that golden September-afternoon, would prove to be the last straw, the ultimate undoing; where all of their lies, acts and years of heartlessness had lead them to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, thanks again for reading...
> 
> please have a cookie and my sincerest thanks, if you read all of this to the end... I know it's ridiculousy long, but if you have a better idea, as to where to make a cut, please let me know!
> 
> For now I'll leave you with my best wishes and kindest regards!
> 
> Be safe, take care and treat yourselves kindly!
> 
> Greetings, TGA


	26. The abyss inside of us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pitch black tears my heart has cried have flooded my soul and are threatening to wash away the small seed of kindness you once planted there.  
> Wave upon wave of dark, vile hatred now licks at its roots and tears at its leafs... And if you hadn't watered it with the bright, warm heart-blood of yours, hadn't showered it in the gentle light of your eyes or nursed it with those beautifully calloused hands it would have been drowned by the darkness within me in the blink of an eye...  
> But I can feel its firm hold waning, the fragile foliage wither and the tender blossom die...  
> And as I cry out in despair, I can only pray that I might finally cleanse my heart before my deep, dark poison defiles what you have blessed me with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, everyone.... And: Would.you.look.at.that??
> 
> This damn Chapter is even longer than the last one, but there wasn't really any point where a cut seemed fitting and now you my dear readers have to deal with this... let's just call the thing by its name: this atrocity.
> 
> It's angsty as hell, it's painful, it's just so fucking heart-breaking and I'm still hurting from writing this, but it had to be done.  
> Someone safe those sweet boys from me!
> 
> Anyways... this is once again one of the darker, harder chapters of this fic, for we have a lot of violence, clear refferences to non-con, some horror and gore, some more violence and a less explicit description of intimacy, which might still be considered... ahm... unsettling? You'll see what I mean.
> 
> As always feed-back is highly appreciated and I'd be more than happy to have mistakes, typos and bad grammar pointed out to me!
> 
> And now, without further ado: "Rogue's (continued) and Sting's (arguably worst) nightmare part 26"

The mission starts easy enough – climb down into the manhole beneath the generous mansion, retrieve whatever creepy-crawly nightmare had nested down there and get rid of it – so from what the quest report stated, it was business as usual; nothing to worry, nothing to fear.

But trouble arises soon enough…

When Rogue’s eyes fall onto the narrow, seemingly endless chute leading down into abysmal darkness, his skin starts crawling and his breath hitches, for the tunnel was barely even wide enough for them to squeeze through…

Sting shoots him a worried glance; the way his lover’s heart-beat had started racing not lost on him, and while he makes for the looming, ominous blackness of the opening, he mouths a soft: “Don’t worry, I’ll be with you!” before he lets a warm, gentle aura of light ignite all around him and carefully slides down the rocky slope leading steadily downwards.

Rogue, however, still hesitates, his guts clenching painfully in unease, and only when the customer; a middle-aged, haggard looking man with eyes as cold and calculating as a bird of prey, hisses an impatient: “What are you waiting for?” does he make for the entrance with numb limbs and sweaty hands.

For the first few yards he manages surprisingly well; just keeps on crawling with his eyes clenched shut to block out the oppressive walls of stone threatening to crush him, as he follows Sting’s scent somewhere in front of him, carefully feeling around to find his way.

But after a few hundred yards of painstakingly slow belly crawling the crevice narrows down even further, and navigating through the tiny, crooked cleft now required vision…

So he pries his eyes open, praying for the hole to be wider than what his hands had ascertained, only to find himself in pitch-black darkness. Seemingly miles ahead he can make out Sting’s faint light, and the unbearable urge to catch up to his other half; to let the soothing magic wash over him and guide him through this nightmare; makes him hasty and reckless…

And all at once he’s stuck…

It’s been the only phobia to ever haunt him… But as long as he can remember, confined, closed-off spaces had always terrified him and now what had solely happened in the most vivid nightmares had become bone-chilling reality.

He can’t move…

There’s no forward, no backwards and the merciless hold of cold, impassive rock gets tighter with every second…

He fights it, struggles against the rough stones vehemently, not caring, not even realizing that his clothes are ripping and blood starts to trickle from at least five different spots- and still the cave doesn’t relinquish its adamant hold on his form.

For a second he forces himself to stay still, to relax and think… Sting had managed to get through, so he should be able to do so as well… but then a tiny pebble buries itself into his ribs and all at once he can’t breathe…

 

Rogue’s chest tightens; the air too hot and heavy to fit into his lungs, and while his head starts spinning he only manages a dying outcry of pure, mindless horror, before his airways lock up.

Static is building in his ears, hazy and chaotic, until a familiar, warm voice breaks through the buzzing.

“Rogue!! Calm down! Turn sideways and use the ceiling to pull yourself through the squeeze!”

With last, dying strength the Shadow Dragon Slayer manages to croak a hoarse, quaking:

“Can’t… ‘m stuck…” before he blacks out.

 

Sting’s voice gradually penetrates the haze clouding his mind, sounding just as freaked out and terrified as he feels himself, and it doesn’t do shit to lessen the distress…

But then the White Dragon Slayer calls out again, almost hysteric, since he hadn’t received an answer in minutes: “Rogue!! The Shadows!! Use the Shadows to get out of here! There’s a large, open space in front of us, I can feel the draft! Go on ahead; I’ll catch up with you!”

Sting’s quick thinking turns out to be his saving grace…

In his state of mindless panic, Rogue hadn’t even thought about entering the comfortingly familiar silence of the Shadow Realm, but right now he isn’t too certain if he could focus enough to allow the crisp, calming tides of the black ocean to lure him in.

Still, he summons his magic-

And for a few seconds of unaltered, excruciating terror nothing happens, but then the darkness embraces him with the soothing, gentle touch of a lover.

 

He finds the wide chamber at the bottom of the hole within seconds; and still, as soon as he materializes from the shades his legs give out beneath him, sending him to the harsh, cold floor in an onslaught of uncontrollable shivers.

Mere moments later, however, he feels warmth spreading around him, sweet and cautious, until he realizes that it’s Sting who’d pulled him close, his long, nimble fingers slowly threading through his dark, silken tresses and the softest of whispers tickling his ear.

“Shhh… easy, my love… Just breathe… there’s a lot of space around you… enough air… it’s fine…

 You did great!”

They stay like that for quite some time, until Rogue had finally relaxed and unclenched his balled up fists that clung mercilessly to the fabric of Sting’s jacket. His breathing had evened out and his heart had finally stopped racing, so the blonde dares to ask a quiet: “You feeling better?”

But before the Shadow Dragon Slayer can even answer, Sting’s head snaps up in surprise and he hurries to withdraw from his boyfriend, quietly hissing: “Something’s coming!”

Within mere seconds he’s manoeuvred himself in front of Rogue, protectively shielding him, as the Shadow Dragon Slayer struggles to his feet, and even though the blonde’s posture is proud and strong, he still relaxes noticeably, when he feels his other half taking his rightful spot to his left; close to his heart where he belonged.

So they stared into the darkness ahead with unseeing eyes, the fair light surrounding Sting quickly extinguished, as to not give away their position, while the boys kept their other senses – sharpened due to the lack of sight - trained onto the thick nothingness in front of them.

And even though he stands his ground bravely; waves of fine shivers start running through the White Dragon Slayer as soon as he feels the blackness reaching for him with greedy claws…

Rogue moves closer almost by instinct, lets his shadows wrap around the quivering hands and starts tapping a familiar rhythm against a damp palm to keep Sting grounded.

Soon enough the sound of footsteps identifies the looming threat as a human being, and when a sudden gust of wind carries their scent right into the sensitive noses, both boys twitch in confusion, for the smell they’d just caught clearly belonged to their client…

“That’s…” Sting whispers, obviously gob-smacked, when Rogue intervenes: “I know… maybe it came from above… I mean… shouldn’t this place be somehow linked to the mans…”

 

Suddenly bright, blinding lights ignite all around them, bathing the vast cavern in silvery light, while the landlord comes sauntering towards them, a sly grin spreading on his lips.

“Oh, I see… you _both_ made it down my tiny-teeny manhole… Well, congratulations… Please forgive me for troubling you with the cumbersome climb, but I had to evaluate, if the two of you could live up to your reputation and warrant the high price old Jiemma demands for your… _service…"_

Taking in the Dragon Slayer’s obviously confused, increasingly angered expressions, he deliberately turns to the left as he speaks, allowing the boys to catch a short glimpse of a wide, luxurious stair-case, padded with a lush, crimson carpet, before he steps towards them, his face contorted into the travesty of a smile…

“What are you staring at? Did you honestly think the sole way into my cellars would lead down a disgusting, dirty crawl-space like that?”

He looks them over with open repugnance, before his glance gets caught on Sting who’s features display nothing but barely concealed fury; and the guy hisses:

“What? Did you expect, I’d allow just any random vermin to smirch my mansion with their vile, ordinary filth? I pay your Master and thus I ensure that you two get some grubs to live another day.

You’d rather be grateful… No quit yapping and get a move on, I can’t waste the whole day waiting for the two of you to finally start doing your job!

My servants already located the beasts’ lair somewhere in those tunnels, so we better get moving! I want those things slain by sunset!”

He’s already ambling towards the impenetrable darkness that marked the entrance to the tunnel in question, his provocatively fulsome robes swaying ostentatiously around his form, when Rogue breaths absolutely dumbstruck:

“We?”

It’s the first time that a client had ever demanded to accompany them on a job and with the guy in question giving off an unsettlingly cruel aura of sadism, the prospect of having the creep trail along already starts grinding on his nerves.

Their employer spins around once again, his features now dominated by the most abominable grin, as he singsongs:

“I’m a very cautious man, thus I’ll be coming with you to make sure you won’t just slack off and ransack the money without actually completing the task you’ve been given!

When nothing but a frosty silence meets him - the Twin Dragons’ forms rigid and wary by the second - he continues with an even darker chuckle:

“Also… I could never miss out on seeing good ol’ Jiemma’s most famous lap-dogs in action… I’m already excited… I mean, for years he’d always promoted the two of you as his invincible Dragon Slayer Duo… And only now is he willing to share his precious boys with me… What a shame, keeping such rare gems from me, even though we go such a long way back…

So now please go ahead and entertain a lonely, sapient man with your extraordinary strength… I’m waaaiiiting….!”

His voice sounds nice and elated enough, but buried deep down beneath layers upon layers of disgusting, sugar-coating sweetness, something abominable seemed to lurk.

Then he ushers them into the confusing, pitch-black maze of tunnels, barely giving the boys a chance to exchange more than a short, concerned glance.

 

An icy draft carries the off-setting stench of rotting flesh and rancid faeces right into the keen noses of the Dragon Slayers and causes their eyes to tear up, even though they’ve only just entered the flight of dark, winding corridors.

Sting’s magic flares around him relentlessly – a blinding, flickering light that casts stark, ever-shifting shadows onto the rough walls – and the rigid way he holds himself, the almost overwhelmingly powerful aura shielding him and the nervous way it keeps humming are more than enough to tell Rogue that he’s distressed by the heavy, silent obscurity around them.

The client, who went by the name Alexis Fendsworth, as they’d learnt by now, is still sauntering behind them and both boys can feel his cold, emotionless eyes boring into their backs with unabashed hunger and greed.

Not even once does his attention shift, thus efficiently keeping Rogue from subtly reaching out for Sting’s clam, quivering hand, and the Shadow Dragon Slayer is almost certain, that the whole mission had been staged to confront either of them with their respective deep, dark fears…

The only fortunate circumstance is the fact, that Fendsworth seems to be stone-deaf and so he dares to whisper an endless string of voiceless reassurances to his boyfriend, hoping against hope that it was enough to fend off the peculiar, bodily darkness pressed up against their forms.

For a short while it seems to work…

For a short while Sting manages to appear all calm and collected – at least to someone, who could neither hear his heart pounding nor smell the painfully pathetic scent of raw, forcefully supressed terror radiating off his skin…

 

Then, however, a high-pitched, reverberating noise pierces their ears; the sound unsettling and terrifying in its foreignness; causing the fine hairs on their necks to stand on end and sending goose-bumps up and down their spines. The tune seems to alternate between shrill, screeching heights and thrumming, buzzing lows; spreads throughout their bodies until they feel their each and every nerve brimming with an unsettling, malevolent static…

“Oh… there they are already… I hadn’t expected them to notice us this early… but I guess your “dragon stench” lured them in… Best of luck, my boys… best of luck…”

The client hasn’t even finished his sarcastic, sinister remark, when a sophisticated, incredibly powerful force-field comes crashing down all around him, while the boys are left on their own; the small chamber they’re in opening into six tunnels; and each of them buzzing dangerously.

The noise keeps on swelling; then a faint glittering appears somewhere deep down the twisted knot of tunnels, as if a million eyes had just been hit by unsteady torchlight….

The air seems to vibrate, the ground starts to shake…

… and suddenly, they’re everywhere…

 

Suddenly the air is swarming with black, shiny insects, each the size of a small cat and a 10 inch-long, moistly shimmering sting protruding from their gaster.

Both mages lash out at the wasp-like, dangerously humming things with everything they’ve got, and while Rogue’s shadows seem to deal quite a lot of damage, Sting’s light-magic not only draws them in, but also agitates the vermin…

So it doesn’t take long until the blond finds himself surrounded by at least eight of the droning monsters, and since his idea of proper clothing never really included the concept of an actual shirt, at least eight stings find their way into his flesh within mere seconds.

The White Dragon Slayer collapses with a primal scream of seering hot agony while deep, angry swellings start forming on every visible patch of his fair skin…

“Now… that’s gonna be interesting…” Fendsworth grins, while his eyes light up from the sight of Sting’s obvious pain. “I wonder how he’s gonna handle the poison…”

But neither of the boys pays him a mind…

 

Rogue is already darting over to his lover’s side, crushing creepy-crawlies left and right with his shadows, when suddenly the blonde’s pulse kicks into overdrive.

He’s staggering to his feet with jerking, sluggish motions; his eyes dilated and skin eerily pale, numb lips moving ceaselessly and it takes a short moment for Rogue to notice, that it’s quiet, miserable pleading that leaves his Sting’s mouth.

Without warning his warm, dazzling aura of light dies down and in the next second he starts screaming in horror.

 

The darkness embraces them almost greedily, swallowing up whatever last reminiscence of light was to remain dancing in the rapidly chilling air, and the White Dragon Slayer lets out another blood-curdling cry of sheer terror.

“And this is why they’re called Screechers…” Fendsworth actually dares to chuckle as he lights up a small torch, and suddenly Rogue’s stomach drops in nauseating fear.

Even though they’d never encountered the beasts in question, he has at least read about them a couple of times, and he can feel a dark, mirthless huff of laughter rising in his throat – for he recalls, that even back then he’d silently prayed to never run into those things, what with their back-stories being the way they were.

Right now, Rogue can already feel his heart jumping into his throat; his chest tight and a relentless, painful churning having his guts in coils, as the barely audible, yet still incredibly forceful buzzing runs through his body, eliciting a mind-robbing, desperate sensation of sheer panic.

His hands start shaking, something wet drips from the tip of his nose right into his palm, and he can’t for the life of him figure out if it’s sweat or tears… until he realizes that it’s blood…

Dark, pitch-black blood, trickling from a cut throat…

Dark, pitch-black blood trickling down _his_ throat, as a swollen, rotting tongue pries his mouth open with disgusting, slurping sounds and the taste of decay clings nauseatingly to his lips.

With a rough, strangled outcry of fright he slips into the shadows and suddenly the terror wanes…

The blood vanishes from his hands, the sensation of festering meat leaves his mouth and within seconds he can breathe freely and compose himself.

For a moment he wonders, just what the hell changed to snap him out of the terrible mirage, then he remembers what he’d read about the Screechers…

 

The aggressive, black flying horrors were many a wizard’s ever-living nightmare, for even though the general idea of a cat-sized, crimson-eyed, wasp-like abomination should be enough to send almost anyone running like crazy; the demon-spawn in question had two far more dangerous, horrifying aces up their sleeves…

First of all, the deep, reverberating buzzing and droning of their wings, especially when appearing in swarms, did not only confuse and irritate any even remotely sane human being, but also created some sort of infra-sound that caused an unavoidable, all-encompassing feeling of impending doom and horror to befall the victim, as it increased their heart-rate and obstructed their breathing, to a degree a person sensitive enough could actually die from sheer distress alone.

To make things worse, the vermin from hell also possessed quite the painful sting that inflicted its prey with a fast acting, psychotropic venom, causing them to suffer the most vivid hallucinations.

This effect, combined with the unsettling, panic-inducing infra-sound, managed to reduce almost anyone who’d ever gotten caught up in a Screecher’s attack to a curled up, madly screaming mess, while the realistic visions forced them to relive their most terrifying memories.

Hence the name didn’t actually refer to the swarming bastards, but to the incapacitated, mindlessly braying victims; many of which had taken their own lives in a state of unstoppable terror; as they’d desperately tried to somehow soothe the unbearable fear.

So even someone who’d lived a sheltered, wholesome life; indulged by fate and spared from all the ugliness haunting this world, would have boken beneath the crushing nightmare bearing down onto their mind, but the traumas Sting had encountered took things to a whole new level, and the mere thought almost causes Rogue’s stomach to spill its contents….

The urge to reach out to his lover; to pull him close, hush and rock him gently until the panic let up, is almost unbearable, and the way the blonde tries to defend himself by lashing out all chaotic and frenzied, stabs his heart agonizingly.

The wasps are still cornering him - the swarm obviously sensing his vulnerability – and since they’re crowded together in an angrily buzzing, thrumming ball of abominable malevolence, the Shadow Dragon Slayer manages to take the bigger part of the creatures out in one fell swoop.

He’s nearly allowing himself to breathe the tiniest sigh of relief, when all at once Fendsworth gets attacked…

And even though he’s shielded safe and sound by his energy-field, he still drops the torch with a false, lilting “Whooooops….”

 

The only small light that was illuminating the oppressive, pulsating darkness threatening to overcome them fizzles quietly when it hits the ground - the flames flickering wildly as they’re reflected in Sting’s wide, unfocused eyes for a second - then it dies with a small hiss and the most terrible scream rings throughout the gloom.

 

The second the room is bathed in blackness, whatever was to remain of the White Dragon Slayer’s sanity comes crushing down and suddenly all dams are breaking without even the slightest chance of holding back.

He’s lost in the nothingness once again, feels his body vibrating, as Jiemma rubs up against him, his throat tight, while he chokes and sobs and whimpers and pleads…

He doesn’t sense his lifeline; his guiding light, his guardian angel; anymore, even though Rogue’s only few yards away, quietly calling out to him, but at this very moment all there is are tainting, groping hands, a slick, rough tongue and his pulse hammering in his ears.

 

Rogue, himself, is gradually nearing a mental breakdown, the infra-sound starting to afflict him again, but it’s mostly mind-robbing, agonizing concern for his beloved that bears down on him; and now, with the biggest part of the swarm slain, he’s already rushing over to the blonde’s rigid, trembling form to calm him down, when a small noise from behind reminded him, that their client was still there.

Still watching. And worst of all, still an old acquaintance of Jiemma’s…

So the soft, loving words die on his tongue, the hand already reaching out to pull the distressed boy in falls away and his limbs start shaking, as he realizes that right now, he couldn’t do anything to comfort Sting, or they would blow their cover…

Then, however, the blonde’s unintelligible screaming breaks off abruptly; his hoarse voice suddenly tear-choked and small as he mumbles: “No… please don’t… I’m begging you… please… Master…”

Over and over again, barely audible at first, but then hysteria sinks its venomous teeth into his being and his pleading gets louder and louder…

 

A quiet, curious “Oh?” rings through the darkness and now Rogue’s ready to break, too… a never-known helplessness, unrivalled and unforgiving, spreads through his veins, as he realizes, that he is not only unable to somehow ease his boyfriend’s terrors, but now also must prevent Fendsworth from guessing, what kind of visions where plaguing Sting at all costs.

He’s panicking worse than ever, his thoughts racing but not going anywhere, his heart galloping painfully; as he recognizes the hopelessness of the situation.

Either the client would tell on them for being suspiciously close and tender with one another, or he’d complain about Sting failing to get a hold of himself and displaying what their Master would consider a “pathetic display of weakness”… No matter which way, it would irrevocably end in the pit…

But should Fendsworth mention the strange whimpered pleads, the snapping outcries of repulsion, the obvious struggling against something that wasn’t there… who knows, what Jiemma would do to Sting then…

His breaths become ragged, knees already wobbling and the dark haired boy has to bite down into the soft flesh of his of cheeks until he tastes blood, to keep himself from keeling over in pure horror, when it suddenly it hits him, that there was something he could do after all…

 _One_ way to deliver Sting from this nightmare, while also making certain, that Jiemma’s buddy wouldn’t get any funny ideas…

 _The only way_ , and even though a twisted relief runs hot through his veins, it also hurts like a knife.

But he can already hear Fendsworth fumbling for another torch and therefore, knowing that those few dwindling seconds of darkness were going to be the only shot he would get, he yells a sharp:

“Watch out, idiot!” Before he charges and rams his fist forcefully right into Sting’s stomach, quietly praying that he managed to knock him out, before his lover could feel much of the pain…

The blonde only lets out a dying yelp before he crumbles to the ground with a heavy thud; his body lying motionless and limp.

And while he fights the remaining Screechers with merciless, surgical precision, uninvited memories resurface, for the whole scene is painstakingly familiar…

 

The last wasp falls to the ground with an unfittingly soft noise and Rogue’s legs give out beneath him almost immediately.

The fight had done a serious number on him; leaving him with his magic energy nearly completely drained and his mind a reeling, wildly buzzing mess, where only one coherent thought was running around in circles: “StingStingStingSting…”

He’s already scrambling over to the unmoving figure when Fendsworth calls out: “What happened to him?” and he doesn’t even try to hide the foul humor lacing his voice.

“Accidentally got caught up in my attack…” the Shadow Dragon Slayer presses out with strain, as he carefully reaches for Sting’s neck to check his pulse and only when he finds the familiar, beloved heart-beat humming beneath his fingers, does he allow himself to slump down in relief.

“Don’t tell me he’s still alive!” the atrocious guy marvels and, without even knowing it, comes dangerously close to being mauled by a red-eyed furry-blinded shadow…

Only in the last moment possible Rogue manages to refrain from attacking and contents himself with a venomous hiss: “Why wouldn’t he?”

The careless chuckle Fendsworth answers him with almost drives him up the wall again, but then he just focuses on his lover, glad to be given the chance to maintain at least the smallest of touches under the pretense of checking his vital signs.

“He’s got stung how often? Five times? Six? A normal human being would be a goner after the third one… Color me impressed. Old Jiemma wasn’t kidding about your strength… Guess he won’t be kicking the bucket after all… The venom should be wearing off already.”

With a fluid, somehow stilted motion he turns around and starts ambling back towards the mansion, chiming:

“This was actually highly entertaining… You two delivered quite the show… So I guess it was worth the money in the end… I’ll be sending my regards to your Master shortly….”

He’s already about to head back, but the obvious lack of reaction from the boys has him spin around once again, this time his eyes glittering dangerously, as he spits:

“Well? What are you waiting for? You’re dismissed! Now pick up your trash and get going.”

The Shadow Dragon Slayer only stares at him in disbelieve, had actually expected the guy to at least allow him to tend to Sting’s injuries and wait for him to come to, but Fendsworth waves him off with a condescending “Shoo! Shoo!”

So he turns to his still unconscious beloved, quietly makes for gathering his limp form into his arms, when he notices the alarmingly sharp, hard eyes looking him over strangely and only then it hits him, that he couldn’t possibly carry Sting like that right now.

Too loving the touch, too gentle and suspiciously intimate, so he quickly drapes his boyfriend over his shoulder and stomps out of the god-forsaken tunnels with an ocean of unshed tears threatening to drown him.

 

As soon as he’s outside, the warm shine of the slowly setting sun caresses his skin in waves of golden autumn-light and once he’s made certain, that he’s in a safe distance from the mansion, at the bank of a clear, lively brook, he finally allows himself to break.

It only lasts a few moments, but for a couple of stuttering heart-beats, he keeps his lover cradled to his chest, nuzzles his crown needily and lets the searingly hot tears spill from his burning eyes.

Then he gently beds Sting onto his hastily shrugged off cape, head cushioned in his lap, and he starts tapping his cheek carefully, all the while he calls out to him softly.

 

Once again, an unforgiving wave of flashbacks overwhelms him, but this time he can’t take his mind off the scenes rising in his mind and thus the past catches up- unwanted and unforgiving.

 

It had happened about a year ago. They’d been sent to accompany some spoiled offspring of the local royalty to some sort of social event, but the second they met at the station the whole quest immediately went to shit.

Still dizzy, faint and nauseous from the extended train-ride that lay behind them, both Dragon Slayers tried their best to maintain their composure, when suddenly the stench of rotting fish from one of the waste bins hit Rogue’s nose full force and the next second he’d already double over and started puking violently…

Unfortunately he hit the princeling’s obviously expensive, polished leather-shoes spot on and the mission had ended right there and with a hefty complaint to the Guild.

Both boys were secretly scared out of their minds upon returning to the Guild Hall, and when Jiemma had just hissed an animus “Outside! Get moving!”, as he dragged them into the training grounds, both knew that the punishment was going to be massive.

Once they made it to the sparring ring, however, Jiemma refrained from wrecking their bodies with his humongous fists, was rather just standing there looking at them cold and sly.

For a second both Sting and Rogue found a tiny slither of hope rising in their chests, but then their Master moved to the side, revealing two small, furry forms bound to a stake with rough rope, mouths gagged and their eyes wide and pleading. And suddenly they understood, why Jiemma had allowed them to keep the Exceeds…

The Twin Dragons froze solid in sheer, unaltered horror, both already twitching with the urge to lash out, when the giant man boomed: “Don’t even think about it!” but then his voice softened; the sound sickeningly wrong, as he continued:

“You wanted to “fight” me, if I ever “hit” either of you again… isn’t that right, Sting?” The blonde remains stubbornly silent, but Jiemma didn’t seem to expect an answer anyway, for he went on unperturbed:

“Well, I’ll respect your demand. I’m not going to lay a single finger on the two of you.

You’ll do that yourself! As if I’d sully my fingers on someone so disgraceful and disgusting! I’ve always overlooked this pathetic motion-sickness of yours, for it’s a documented Dragon Slayer quirk, that can’t be helped, but I expect the two of you to keep your damn food down your guts!

How dare you tarnish the name of my Guild like this? I really should be teaching you some manners, but Eucliffe demanded, that I leave you alone… And what kind of a Master would I be if I ignored the request of a member like that…” The sly grin contorting his features was the most twisted thing Rogue had ever seen appear on a human face; and when Jiemma continued his tune held barely concealed venom:

“You’ll fight this out on your own! Whoever remains standing gets the cats… And if I see either of you pulling punches or faking defeat those damn flea-bags will be minced-meat! Did I make myself clear?”

For a moment the boys just stared at him in shock, so he bellowed an aggressive: “Answer me! Did I make myself clear?”

And only then did they press out a forced, toneless: “Yessir…”

“Then why are you still standing there, gaping? Move your goddamn asses, before I start tearing their tiny-teeny claws out one by one…” He’d already grabbed Frosch’s paw and ripped off the soft fabric of her suit, before he started pulling forcefully at her stubby little limbs, eliciting a pathetic wail.

 

Almost overwhelmed and broken by the sound, their hearts clenching in agony, the boys turned towards one another; one lifetime not enough to grasp the amount of pain and bereavement silently screaming inside of them; while a couple of unspoken, yet heart-felt words ghosted through their eyes.

It was a choked, ever-so-quiet: “I’m sorry. I love you. …” and then both bit back the tears and flung themselves at one another.

 

The fight had been over and decided before they’d even exchanged one puny little punch, and even though both boys were well aware of this certain circumstance, Rogue hoped against hope that his other half hadn’t realized what had to be done, yet…

Sting, however wouldn’t do him the favor.

“Enter the Shadows, goddammit!” he hissed quietly, when his lover kept on dancing around him, every once in a while lashing out at him with held back force.

It had been obvious from the beginning, that Rogue had the upper hand in this match.

Not because he was stronger per se – both Dragon Slayers were evenly matched and if they ever were to fight one another squarely and without restraint, no one could possibly predict the outcome…

But with the situation at hand; as both of them were desperately searching for a way to get back their Exceeds unharmed without having to hurt one another, it was clear, that the Shadow Dragon Slayer had an advantage…

Whenever the dark haired boy slipped into the Shadows, he became practically immune to almost any kind of physical damage, and Sting silently thanked each and every entity smirking at the cruel fate he’d been dealt, that at the very least, it was going to be himself, who’d be taking the fall.

But Rogue was still stalling, still refused to melt into the ground and the blonde feared Jiemma’s patience might just start wearing out, should his lover not start taking this serious.

For him not to enter the shadows must seem strange, suspicious even, to say the least, but right when he was about to give in, their heartless Master had already snapped…

“Are you shitting me? Were you honestly thinking, I’d fall for this lackluster act you’re trying to pull on me? I warned you, didn’t I… But you just wouldn’t listen…”

And before either of them could react, he’d already flung two bright buzzing balls of pure, ill-meaning energy right at the cats; leaving them to convulse and screech in white, hot agony.

Both Sting and Rogue yelled out in unaltered despair, while the Shadow Dragon Slayer finally slid into the cold, impassive darkness reaching for him, only to appear right behind his lover within the next second, as he flung a hook right at his chin.

He didn’t use his full force; never could allow his beloved to get _this_ hurt, but the brunt of the impact still managed to send the blonde stumbling back.

Jiemma still mustered both of them closely; his eyes blank and emotionless as always; and he shot yet another tight, buzzing orb of pain-turned-tangible, upon witnessing the comparatively mild punch Rogue had just thrown.

Once again the high-pitched, piercing cries of Lector and Frosch stabbed the Dragon Slayers, and all of a sudden, Sting actually started begging, his voiceless whispers heavy and quaking under the crushing weight of too many tears to bear…                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

“Rogue! Dammit, stop that! You know that the only way out of this is for you to take me down!”

The Shadow Dragon Slayer, however, still shook his head adamantly, as he retorted equally quietly:

“No! You do it! Come on, just knock me out and be done with it! I can’t watch this any longer!”

He was crying, the blonde realized, for he could smell the bitter salt and sense the unsettling waves of crushing heart-ache resonate with something hidden deep down his soul, and when he spoke again, the White Dragon Slayer felt his throat tightening viciously just as well.

“There’s no way this is gonna work, love! We need to make this seem as realistic as it can get! And you wouldn’t leave the shadows in a real fight, now would you? Jiemma knows this as well! He’s well aware, that you’re having the high ground right about now, so… for fuck’s sake… Get it over with! Do you want Lector and Frosch to get hurt even more?”

Rogue choked out a miserably small: “No… of course not…” before he had to clamp his mouth shut hastily, to suppress the strangled sob slowly building in his throat… When his voice obeyed him once again, however, he added: “No, I don’t want them to be in pain even one second longer… But I don’t wanna hurt you either!”

“Yeah, I know that!” Sting all but hissed under his breath, before he forced the gentleness back into his voice: “But _I_ can take it. Our Exceeds can’t… So… That’s the only authentic way this fight may work… You keep to the Shadows where I can’t reach you, give me a thorough thrashing, I get in a few hits as well, whenever you’re in a tangible form, but then you get me by surprise and knock me the hell out!”

And of course he was nothing but right… Of course it had to go down this way, for their fight needed to look real, and no one would ever buy it, if Rogue was to refrain from using the Shadows…

For a second they looked at one another; the red eyes still indecisive and flickering with unease, before Sting pleads once more; all the force in the world unable to keep him from shedding a thick trickle of tears. “Do it! Now! I can handle this, they can’t…” and finally, finally Rogue complied, for he suddenly let a steady string of powerful attacks rain down on his lover.

He made certain, that he’d taken most of the force and viciousness out of the pummeling, and here his shadow form came in handy again, for Jiemma couldn’t possibly perceive how much power he put into his hits.

A cruel grin spread on Jiemma’s features, as he witnessed the Shadow Mage gaining the upper hand, attack after attack relentlessly hitting home, and when he found the blonde swaying dangerously on unsteady feet he eased the death-choke he’d maintained on Lector and Frosch’s tiny forms.

 

Sting was slowly beginning to feel fuzzy, darkness closing in on his sense of self, even though Rogue hadn’t beaten him even close to unconsciousness; but then again, here he was, staggering and sluggishly, any feeling in his limbs gone, and the only thing that kept him grounded was his lover’s constant scent, as it wafted around them warm and safely.

“I’ve numbed your body…” an incorporeal voice breathed right into his ear, “To make this less painful…”

A heavy sigh, and after that a cold draft trailed over his cheek, leaving Sting to the urge of chasing after it with his lips, but then Rogue continued: “When I give you the sign, I want you to keep still… Just for a sec, as if I’d managed to use “White Claw” on you! Got that?”

Then he circled around his unsteady lover, easily evading his increasingly uncoordinated attacks, and slowly reached for his neck with bodiless fingers, breathing: “Now… keep still…” and the blonde freezes almost instinctively.

Rogue quickly found the point he was aiming for, and while Sting was still shivering from the sudden coldness of his boyfriend’s skin, he whispered a low “I love you… Please forgive me…”

Then his hands stilled in two spots left and right of Sting’s spine, and before he could even acknowledge the fleeting touch, Rogue had already pressed two fingers down forcefully until something deep down within the marrow of his spine seemed to snap.

A sudden burst of white hot electricity raced through his body; a million colors exploded in front of his eyes… and then: nothing.

Sting sagged to the ground instantly; his limp form sprawled out in an odd position, and Rogue remained standing protectively right over his unconscious figure, while he stared Jiemma down icily.

 

“Nice work, Cheney…” their Master finally muttered, as he flung another attack at the Exceeds, but this time only the ropes fell away and the two little critters were free.

Rogue gathered the shaking, quietly whimpering cats up immediately, his weary eyes never leaving Sting’s motionless body, for fear that Jiemma would try to attack him after all, but the old bastard was already sauntering back towards the Guild Hall.

He looked back over his shoulder just once, remarking impassively: “Don’t leave your trash behind to litter my training grounds!”

And then he was off. For a second, Rogue was tempted to fling a Dragon’s Roar right between his shoulder blades, but then he remembered, that there were more important things to tend to.

After making certain that the Exceeds were still in one piece, he carefully pulled his lover’s slack body into his arms and carried him over to a less exposed more secluded spot.

Underneath the sheltering shades of some huge trees he gently eased him down, and while compressing a certain spot right at the base of his neck, called out to him quietly.

Sting actually came to only moments later; his azure eyes opening ever so slowly, and as soon as he found the Exceeds safe and sound beside him, he let his head sink against Rogue’s chest in relief.

They’d stayed there for a long time, unable to speak, simply holding onto each other, with the cats tugged securely between their entwined bodies…

 

Rogue's still trying to fend off the vile memory of his beloved fainting right beneath his very hands, as Sting’s lashes finally start fluttering, but when he pries his eyes open forcefully, they still appear dull and dazed; the fear returning almost instantly.

Within seconds he jerks up with a start, violent shivers once again wrecking his form, and it doesn’t take long for the screams to build in his chest.

Rogue reaches out immediately, but the blonde shies away from him without recognition, and the frenzied confusion written all over his features is excruciatingly hard to bear.

Then, however, a spark of understanding ignites in his wide, blood-shot eyes as he whispers a small, broken “Rogue??” as if he didn’t dare to believe, his lover was right in front of him.

The Shadow Dragon Slayer pulls him in carefully and slow, allows Sting to crumble against his chest and starts running his hands over his trembling back.

“You came back…” the blonde chokes out. “Why’d you come back?” and it seems as if he wanted to struggle against the dark haired boy, but lacked the strength.

“Shh… it’s alright, love… What are you talking about?” Rogue tries to sooth, when his lover suddenly cries out:

“You left me behind… You… you left me alone in there… you saw everything… and then you left, because I grossed you out…” he’s sobbing forcefully and each breath he takes seems to hurt a bit more, but before Rogue can even react, he gets shoved back harshly, while Sting yells a raw, broken:

“Why’d you come back now? Why did you leave me alone with him? You… you said you’d never abandon me…”

For a second Rogue feels as if the heavens have just come crashing down on him; his heart clenches painfully and for a second he wishes, he could just crawl down a hole and cry.

But right now he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of a break down, so he reaches for his lover once again, as he whispers: “Sting… hey… shhh… I was right by your side the whole time, believe me. But you didn’t even seem to notice…”

 “No!” the blonde snaps, “You left. You saw what I allowed… _him_ to do and you called me disgusting… and then you turned around and left me alone with him in the dark.”

Hearing this hurt the Shadow Dragon Slayer with merciless, unaltered agony, and he can’t keep his voice from breaking, when he pleads:

“Sting… love… listen! None of this was real! I’d never leave you behind, and you know that! You were hit by those damn Screechers, their venom causes hallucinations. I swear I was right by your side the whole time!”

Doubt flits through frightened, heart-broken eyes, but then they widen in disbelieve, and Sting breathes… “The mission…”

With hot relief spreading through his guts, Rogue nods eagerly. “Yeah… remember? We were in this bastard’s cellar... and then those things attacked us. You got stung multiple times and panicked…”

And when his lover finally relaxes ever so slightly, he adds quietly: “C’mere…” before pulling him in once again. This time Sting actually allows to be held, presses himself closer in a blind pursuit of contact, while he shakes like crazy.

Tears quickly dampen Rogue’s shirt and he fastens his hold, rocks his lover gently, constantly whispering soft words of comfort against his crown.

“Hush… it’s over. It’s okay, none of that actually happened… I’d never abandon you, you gotta believe me! I’d never ever leave you all alone in the darkness, and I sure as hell wouldn’t leave you alone with this piece of shit even for one second. I’ve been by your side the whole time, I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere. Not without you… It’s over… I’ve got you. You’re safe!”     

He keeps up the careful caresses, runs his fingers through the unruly golden tresses with abandon, and when Sting’s shivers slowly subside, he cradles his face in his palms and lets an endless string of sweet butterfly-kisses brush away the tears.

His lover’s eyes still cling to him desperately, every fiber of his being screaming for closeness and comfort, but the haunting expression of sheer unbearable, mind-robbing terror has left his features.

Rogue’s fingers trail over the smooth, wet cheeks lovingly, the pad of his thumb coming to wipe away one last stray tear, and when he leans in to press a soft, chaste kiss to Sting’s lips, the blonde sighs quietly and eases their mouths open.

When they finally break apart, his heart-beat has stopped racing and his upset, frightened demeanor has given way to an exhausted weariness.

 

“So…” he mumbles eventually… “What the hell happened down there? I can only remember Fendsworth appearing out of nowhere, and from then on everything’s but a blur…”

“Not much to say, honestly…” Rogue shrugs. “Those things attacked us, your light unfortunately lured them towards you, you got stung and both the venom and the infra-sound made freak out almost immediately. ‘t was to be expected…” he trails off lowly.

“And then the poison knocked me out, huh?”

For a short-lived, thrilling moment Rogue actually considers jumping at the golden opportunity Sting himself had just offered him on a silver tray…

Then, however, he thinks better of it; he’d never lied to his lover before, and he wouldn’t start doing so now.

So he breaths a deep sigh and mutters: “No… that was me, actually. You were scared out of your wits; I couldn’t calm you down whatsoever and then you started yelling… _stuff_ … Stuff that might have given Fendsworth ideas, when he’d put one and one together… I’m sorry… Honestly… I was completely out of it as well and I just didn’t know what to do…”

The blonde sucks in air sharply, but after a moment of silence mutters a tuneless: “I see… Couldn’t be helped, I guess…”

Then he draws back quickly and hurries to stagger to his feet…

His steps are still somewhat unsteady, but he proceeds stubbornly, while inquiring:

“You coming? I wanna get to our inn as soon as possible… I’m sore…”

He doesn’t bother to look at Rogue.

 

The air around them is heavy and brooding as they walk the seemingly endless miles back to their hotel, and while Sting’s face is closed off and cold, the Shadow Dragon Slayer feels guilt and grief eating away at him.

He’s tried addressing his lover a couple of times, but had only received answers in monosyllables, if any.

He’s opening his mouth to utter just another apology, when the White Dragon Slayer snaps at him harshly, even before he gets to say a single word: “Damn it, I get it! I get it, okay! You didn’t mean to, you were only trying to protect me! I’m not mad at you!”

And only now does Rogue realize, that Sting isn’t upset by the nightmares or being knocked out by his boyfriend by any means… And still… the blonde is seriously pissed and right now all this anger was being vented on the dark haired boy, if he liked it or not.

It’s not the first time, nor the second, that either of them took out their frustration on their other half, and both know, they’d regret it afterwards, but sometimes there was just no helping it.

They haven’t allowed anyone even remotely close to them in since forever and even though it’s kept them comparatively safe, it also narrowed their social contact down to three persons (and that already counted the Exceeds).

So the secluded relationship they have at times feels almost claustrophobic and the lack of other people to interact with sometimes makes them irritable and unreasonable, and then they’d fight.

They’ve done this a lot during the last three years, and because both of them can be the most stubborn dicks to ever walk this earth, it’s never been pretty.

And while Rogue tends to be oversensitive, Sting often behaves petty, so making up would take a while - in the end, however, they always cave and reach out to one another again.

For they love each other, after all, and no amount of bickering and bitching could ever change that.

But it hurts…

For fuck’s sake it hurts, every time a bit more, so when Sting lashes out at the Shadow Dragon Slayer now, he might have slapped him just as well.

 

“Sting… I’m begging you…”

“No!” the blonde wails, almost like a child throwing a temper-tantrum. “No! It’s just not fair! Gaaah, why am I just so fucking pathetic?! This sucks!”

“Sting, love… Stop this! You’re not pathetic and you know that! Those things have brought Double S-class wizards to their knees!” Rogue’s trying to keep his voice deliberately gentle, alas, it doesn’t help shit; only makes the blonde snarls at him with animosity:

“Oh yeah? But you managed just fine with them! Damn, it’s just not fair! You can’t even get down a fucking hole in the ground without losing your shit, but somehow those fuckers can’t lay a finger on you? Goddammit!!”

Sting knows that he’s being unfair, but right now he’s just so incredibly angry that he can’t contain himself any more. So he rages at anyone that would come to mind… Which would be himself. And Rogue.

“What you’ve just said is bullshit and you know it!” the Shadow Dragon Slayer hisses. “Those beasts affected me just as well… The effect just lessened when I entered the Shadows… That’s the one and only reason I managed to stand my ground. And I was still almost crapping my pants…”

“What ever…” Sting mumbles harshly and quickens his walking until he’s a few feet in front of Rogue, his shoulders hunched and his steps listless, as he kicks pebbles and pine cones out of his way.

 

Back at the inn the atmosphere still hasn’t lightened up, and while the blonde is sulking on his side of the bed in silence, the Shadow Dragon Slayer has retreated to the steam-clouded sanctuary of the bath-room to allow a warm stream of water to wash away all the dirt, all the vile shit this horrible day had piled up on his head.

He’s idling on purpose, hoping that once he’s given Sting some time alone to think about what had happened earlier, he’d come to terms with the whole affair, and when he finally returns to their bed-room, he’s greeted by eager lips trailing over his warm, damp skin.

He’s only clad in black sweat-pants and Sting seems to like what he’s seeing, for he instantly backs Rogue up against the wall and kisses him again; sloppy and with passion, while he presses himself closer against his lover’s body.

Allowing his lips to curl into a languid smile the dark haired boy whispers: “Oh… looks like someone wants to make up…”

The blonde, however, all but growls a low: “Shut up!”, before deepening the kiss and biting down on Rogue’s lip with his sharp canines, until salty hot blood mingled with their husky breaths.

“So you wanna do it the rough way tonight?” This time the Shadow Dragon Slayer doesn’t even receive an answer, Sting only starts grinding against him; already rock-hard and quietly moaning; and when his lover’s hands grip his hips firmly, needily pulling him in, he shoves Rogue onto the bed without further ado.

Within seconds he’s upon him again, shuddering as he licks at the tiny trickle of blood on the pale, full lips, his fingers marking the milk-white skin with an angry red wherever they dig into the alabaster body, and when a small sound; half moan, half yelp, leaves Rogue’s lips, the White Dragon Slayer loses himself in a storm surge of raging desire.

So this night, they don’t make love; this night they just bang, and somehow it feels more like a fight than an act of lust, what with the harsh, panted moans and choked, ragged breaths…

It’s a far cry from beautiful but Sting doesn’t care… Right now he’s in control, right now he’s the one giving orders, the stronger one and tonight he just takes his pleasure, not caring for his lover’s satisfaction and needs.

Only when he’s shuddered out his climax, a harsh outcry of pain had him come to his senses and he realized that he’d just bitten Rogue’s shoulder hard enough for the skin to bruise and break.

He’s jerking away from the dark haired boy as if he’d been singed, shame and unbearable guilt crashing down on him with iron force, and he’s already darting for the door in screeching, raging terror, when suddenly Rogue calls out to him and his voice is icy, razor-sharp and unforgiving:

“Don’t you dare running after you just fucked me like this!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, someone hug them!  
> Why am I doing this to them? Nobody knows...
> 
> But this was actually one of the most painful Chapters to write (except for the original non.con-scenes for obvious reasons, duh), but rest assured, we're slowly approaching our happy ending. Maybe three more chapters... So, keep your fingers crossed for the precious SaberBabes.
> 
> As always you all have my sincerest gratitude for all the constant, lovely support you've been regarding me with ever since I started publishing here! This fic wouldn't exist without any of you!
> 
> So please take care and be safe!
> 
> You're amazing!
> 
> TGA


	27. As we lie naked...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time and again my tears have stained your lips, have made those sweet murmurs of solace bitter and turned your lively eyes to ash.  
> And now, that I am so hollow, even your ever so slightest tough will break me, you've finally understood, that there is no saving for us, but maybe for yourself.  
> So leave behind this withering corpse that keeps breaking your heart; shed the pain I have inflicted on you...  
> Rise from the ashes my heart has turned to and be free...  
> And if you'd remember me every now and then, the dull, listless light I have faded into might twinkle and spark, as I vanish into the blackness beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for keeping you guys waiting for so, so long...  
> Stuff happened and I didn't have much time (or will) to write...
> 
> So... as some kind of atonement... here, have the next Chapter and bask in its unearthly, transcendental... PAIN...
> 
> We don't have any warnings really worth mentioning (if you've read this story so far this Chapter will be more or less trigger-free(??)), but it's still one of the saddest things I've ever written...
> 
> So please, someone hug those sweet, lovely boys as they struggle through the 27th part of their never-ending-nightmare....
> 
> Btw.: I highly appreciate any feed-back concerning grammar, style, spelling etc! And I guess that this Chapter will be full of errors I'll have to eradicate during the next few days, but I seriously couldn't waste any time on betaing now, could I?  
> (#We don't beta, we die like women)  
> So please excuse (or rather point out!!) those stupid mistakes! I'll find and fix them eventually...  
> But until then...   
> Here's what I've kept from you for soo, soo long...

For a moment the world stops moving around Sting.

For a moment no sound penetrates the frost-heavy, choking silence that cuts away at his heart with precise, surgical incisions and his ears are filled merely with the white noise of his own blood racing and raging in his veins.

Then, however, as if someone had flipped a switch, the painful stuttering that is Rogue’s pulse meets his ear-drums full force, and the tremors the erratic stumbling that should be foreign to this beautifully brave and loyal heart causes a treacherous pressure to rise behind his burning, unfocused eyes.

The Shadow Dragon Slayer had slipped back into his clothes the second Sting had drawn back; hastily and urgent as if quickly equipping armor in front of an enemy, and remained hovering at the edge of the mattress uncertainly for a second, before slumping back onto the heap of pillows.

And while the blonde quickly dons his pants just as well, he’s lying on his back, arms crossed behind his head, elbows turned inwards as if to shield his face, and as far as Sting can see, his eyes are unreadable and dull as he stares blankly at the ceiling.

The blond looks him over for the longest time, unable to speak, unable to _somehow_ make this whole fucked up situation right again, and the realization, that it’s solely his fault makes him nauseous.

They’d always been so very careful with one another, always made sure their other half was comfortable and at ease…

So that even when desire had their blood run louder and need made their touches hot, claiming and almost bruisingly possessive, there had always been this steadfast, unshakable trust and tenderness beneath the surface that had provided an invisible safety net of respect and unconditional commitment.

Tonight, however, Sting has gone and torn apart this gently woven fabric of acceptance and care; has destroyed the pure, devoted bond they’ve shared with selfish, vain acts of petty resentment.

Not because he has treated Rogue much more calloused and hard this night – his lover wasn’t made from fine china and he could handle rough; sometimes even craved it – but rather due to the careless way he has tried to force him into submission, even though they’ve always been nothing but equals…

It is as if some dark, twisted part of himself has wanted to hurt Rogue, has enjoyed this sudden position of power; this once-upon-a-blue-moon chance to claim the upper hand after years upon years of feeling weak and dependent… and maybe he wanted to silence the shrill, piercing voice of self-loath and inferiority, or perhaps he needed to relieve the pent up frustration and the warped envy; but in those very moments he couldn’t have cared less about his lover’s feelings.

His actions had been fueled by some sadistic, malevolent shade of his soul- one that rarely ever raised its head, as it laid restrained and hidden- but somehow all the intense pain he had to endure during the past couple of hours; the shame upon finding himself unable to deal with the Screechers, the vile, ghastly memories flooding his chest; had almost made him thrilled to inflict at least a small part of his own sufferings on his lover.

He’d been filled to the brim with this swirling, churning flood of primal lust and only when he’d climaxed with a last hard thrust and a muffled, guttural noise as he bit down into Rogue’s shoulder without restraint, had it dawned on him that for the very first time he’d actually hurt the one thing he loved more than his life intentionally.

He’d silenced any hisses of pain with kisses hard enough to bruise and for a second now he isn’t too sure what would have happened, if Rogue had started to struggle against him.

Would he have stopped?

The realization that he can’t answer this question for certain almost makes him throw up right on the spot.

And now he can’t for the life of him come up with anything even remotely suitable to describe the crushing shame, the raging, all-consuming guilt and the heavy remorse that he feels.

Still, he stammers: “Rogue… I… I’m so sorry… I don’t even know what came over me… I never meant to hurt you…”

His last statement is somewhat of a lie… a lie he’s well aware of; and when Rogue’s voice finally breaks the suffocating silence weighing down on their shoulders, he realizes, that he’s been found out immediately.

“Sit down…” Rogue states flatly, eyes glued to the ceiling; his voice hollow and low, but when the blond remains frozen in place with his limbs quivering and his breaths labored and ragged, he snaps: “Sit the fuck down! You’re making me antsy…” and the coldness in his tone is as sharp and merciless as a knife.

So Sting drops down on the far end of the mattress and fists into his hair with trembling, bloodless hands as hard as he can; all the while choking out an endless string of tear-heavy apologies.

“Rogue… I’m so, so damn sorry… I really can’t explain what went wrong right now… I just… Oh god, I never wanted to treat you like that…”

As the he stutters and whimpers Rogue lets his arms sink down ever so slowly and while his tense shoulders unwind, he finally looks at Sting, his still reproachful eyes softening at the sight of ugly, hot tears running down the other’s cheeks.

And when another harsh, hoarse “I’m sorry…” falls from quivering, cold lips, he breathes a quiet, voiceless:

“Yeah… I know…”

For a second it seems as if his answer didn’t even register with Sting but when sad, tired, red eyes find troubled azure ones he stalls, whispering: “I didn’t mean to…”

Again he doesn’t get to finish, for Rogue cuts through his unsteady hiccupping with ease and a bone-deep weariness straining his voice:

“It’s fine…”

Now Sting starts spluttering in honest; bewilderment having his breath catch and disbelief making him stumble over almost every syllable:

“No, it’s not! Nothing’s fine; I hurt you…”

But the Shadow Dragon Slayer only shakes his head subtly, before his eyes are once again drawn to the ceiling and he mutters:

“Doesn’t matter now.”

 “Rogue… How could you say that so easily?” 

The guilt bears down on Sting with a merciless, stone-cold weight that crushes his chest until he can’t breathe; until his vision blurs and he has to lie down hastily to avoid passing out.

For a second everything seems strangely detached and surreal, then gentle fingers reach for his brow and he’s yanked back into the present immediately…

But it’s not the almost unbearable chill radiating off the pale, bloodless hands but the heavy tremors traversing through Rogue’s whole body that hit Sting like a gush of ice-water to his face.

“You’re shaking…” He whispers, voice frozen in shock – when the dark haired boy only shrugs listlessly and mutters:

“It’ll pass…”

And before Sting could choke out another stammered remark, his lover had already captivated his gaze, while a weary sigh and a defeated expression of unaltered pain troubled his features. Another harsh stab runs through the blonde’s guts at the sight, but then something melancholic and gentle seeps into the blood-red eyes and when Rogue speaks, is voice has lost the impassive, haunting emptiness.

“Sting… What’s happening to us?”

The thousandth sad, heavy sigh falls from his quivering lips, before he rolls onto his side to face Sting squarely and when he continues, he sounds deflated, helpless and so, so tired…

“You… I… I mean, this isn’t like us. We’ve once sworn that we’d never hurt each other… And whenever we head out for a mission we renew that promise… That’s what this stands for, doesn’t it?” he’s pensively spinning the pendant he’d worn ever since that day in Crocus between his fingers, silently watching the light getting caught in its depths; and Sting very nearly bursts into tears once again.

After the horrible incident four years ago he’d made a habit out of pressing a soft kiss to the mesmerizing stone-charm whenever they would meet, even when they’ve spent only minutes apart, and every time anew he’s silently awestruck that the stone seems to harbour Rogue’s warmth and his earthen scent somewhere in its flickering core.

To Sting the small gesture was a way to let his other half know, that it was truly him; no tricks played, nothing to fear; and only now does he understand, that whenever Rogue had captured his ear-ring with the most gentle touch in return, he’d quietly reassured him of something different, and at this very moment the realization breaks his heart.

The White Dragon Slayer clenches his eyes shut; unable to bear the broken, devastated expression on his lover’s face any longer, mumbling: “I know… God Rogue, I know… And I have no idea how to make this up to you again. All I can say is that I’ve never regretted something this much in my whole life. I… I’m just such an idiot… I…”

“Sting…” the Shadow Dragon Slayer interrupts his sobbed ramblings quietly, “I wasn’t only talking about you. Yeah, you hurt me, I won’t deny this, but so did I!”

Sting’s head snaps up, cheeks wet with tear stains that reflect the dim light of the lamps and disbelief written between the deep furrows of his brow, as he huffs: “What? You didn’t do anything…”

But Rogue just shakes his head, and his mouth is a tight, unhappy line, his lips slightly trembling, and when he speaks up he sounds raw and full of open, heart-wrenching grief:

“Sting… I attacked you dead on, even though you were vulnerable and scared out of your wits.”

“You were just trying to protect me…” Sting’s answer comes prompt and without hesitation, but there’s a certain under-current of listlessness, wariness and a silent reproach that betrays his forced downplaying easily.

“Yeah… but that’s only half true…” Rogue mutters, eyes downcast and heavy shadows obscuring his face.

“Of course I wanted to keep you safe, somehow release you from those visions but…” he starts biting down on his lip hard enough for the barely closed split Sting had inflicted earlier to break open once again, before he takes a stuttering breath and continues. “But at this very moment I also wanted nothing more than for you to just _shut the fuck up_ … I… Something inside of me suddenly hated your guts, for leaving me alone to deal with this whole mess, for making this about you once again even though I was just as shaken and…”

With his voice dying down to a tuneless, defeated whisper he admits: “I could have knocked you out without any pain whatsoever, could have broken your fall and cushioned your head…

I could have done that… But somehow I just didn’t want to. Somehow I actually wanted to punch you for leaving me alone: even though I knew that you were reliving all those horrible things, even though I realized, I was being petty, cruel and selfish, but I was so very… angry and afraid and… God, Sting, I’m sorry. But that probably won’t even begin to cut it.”

The blond just looks at him for the longest moment, his eyes unreadable and searching, before he slowly reaches out, hand hovering quietly a few inches over Rogue’s face; a silent question humming in the quivering of his fingers.

He waits patiently for his lover to either allow the touch or move away, but when the Shadow Dragon Slayer tilts his head the tiniest bit into his direction; scarlet eyes downcast as if awaiting to be slapped; he cradles the ivory cheek gently and brushes the small trickle of blood dripping from the soft lips away with the pad of his thumb.

Rogue’s left completely dumbstruck by the tender gesture, has expected harsh accusations and resentment, but when he eventually dares to meet Sting’s gaze, he finds azure eyes glittering with the heralding of upcoming tears and even his keen ears almost miss the choked, brokenly whispered:

“No, Rogue…  _I’_ m sorry…”

Scarred, rough fingers start stroking the pale cheek achingly careful and the quaking, all of Sting’s willpower isn’t enough to suppress, traverses through Rogue’s body until it resonates with his heavy heart, making it stumble and start painfully.

A small, strangled sound leaves his throat then, aborted and desperate, something between a sob and a hoarse whimper of barely contained pain, and it hangs heavily in the oppressive air surrounding the boys.

The White Dragon Slayer reaches for him cautiously, mindful of keeping a safe amount of space between them, but when he feels the mattress shaking ceaselessly, he whispers gently:

“Didn’t you say the shaking would pass?”

Rogue, however, recoils, curls up further into himself, muttering: “’s fine… I’m just cold, is all…”

Sting looks him over softly, too many feelings to name darkening his sapphire eyes, before he gets up and retrieves the blankets carelessly tossed onto the ground earlier.

With another sharp pang of guilt he remembers the muffled hiss Rogue let out when one of  hands had fisted into the raven hair, while he’d flung the sheets away; the fabric too hot and heavy as it stuck to his skin.

Now, however, the covers seem cold and crooked… But he still drapes them around Rogue’s silently trembling form; trying hard to make up for the missing warmth by running a careful hand over his icy, quaking shoulder.

For a moment he fears rejection, almost expects his lover to shy away; but Rogue just closes his eyes with a barely audible sigh, as he leans into his touch.

The motion is almost non-existent, so hesitant and timid, anyone else wouldn’t even have noticed, but for Sting it’s as obvious as an open invitation, so he lies down again carefully and slowly inches closer until his chest is pressed up against Rogue’s still quivering back.

A second passes - a wordless second of breathless fear as the blond awaits being brushed off brusquely, but then the Shadow Dragon Slayer tilts his head back and nudges his shoulder gently in an equally silent gesture of consent and need, so Sting eases his arms around him and pulls him close.

Almost immediately he feels the hard shivers wrecking his body just as well, but that’s the way things are supposed to be.

Shared pleasure, shared pain, and right now he’s more than relieved that Rogue lets him in; allows him to shoulder some of the heart-ache and sorrow, but it still takes him a while to work up the courage to speak.

“I’d say: ‘It’s fine… I’m not mad, I hurt you so much more…’ but I guess that’s not what you wanna hear, is it?”

The weakly breathed “No…” almost goes unheard, but Sting feels the shaking of head against his chest – slow and sad.

The motion alone is enough to stab him with a precise, almost surgical kind of pain, and his voice becomes hoarse and quiet when he continues:

“So how about: ‘I forgive you’?”

And finally, finally Rogue turns around while the lamp-light gets caught in his wide, questioning eyes like sunlight filtering through the painted windows of a cathedral.

Something endlessly grateful and tender blossoms somewhere in the sea of scarlet Sting is currently drowning in, eventually coaxing him into asking the one question bearing down on his heavy, quivering heart.

There’s trepidation in his voice as it trembles and breaks, but every last little hitch only emphasizes the remorse and the guilt that he feels.

“Will you… “

But before Sting can press out more than those two negligible syllables, Rogue lets his fingers trail gently over his face, the pad of his thumb silencing the still fumbling lips softly, and his answer is steadfast, honest and full of unconcealed affection.

“Of course I forgive you! I’ve never been really mad at you to begin with. I’m just… wondering when exactly we became like this…”

 

“Became like what, love?” Sting inquires quietly; but deep down he already knows the answer.

“Cruel… careless, harsh… call it whatever you want… I’ll ask but once more… What is happening to us?”

“We’re trying our best to keep each other safe…” It’s barely more than a whisper, but the heaviness of the sentence echoes through the silence of the room like the crack of a whip.

And even though Rogue flinches ever so slightly at his words, Sting continues without missing a beat.

“We became like this, because it was the only way for us to survive… but I think we’ve lost ourselves somewhere along the way… I couldn’t care less if I ever offended or upset someone in the past, I don’t give a shit if I’d been a jerk to Yukino or whatever the newbie’s called…

But…” he trails off with a disbelieving shaking of head for a second, before stroking his lover’s shimmering hair gently, “But today I hurt _you…_ ”

“Yeah…” Rogue mumbles. “Today I hurt you… and even though we both regret doing so, I can’t help but wonder… What’s next? Will we get used to this? Will the next ones to suffer be Lector and Frosch?” The shocked sound leaving Sting’s lips stabs him, but he presses on.

“What are we still doing here, anyway? I mean… we’re off age now! Jiemma isn’t our guardian anymore, so he can’t force us to stay in his goddamn guild any longer… We could have left almost two years ago…”

A mirthless huff of icy laughter is his sole answer, before Sting’s features darken and something iron enters his eyes.

“And then what?” he only hisses. “Are you of all people actually naïve enough to believe any other guild would take us in? No matter how strong that we are, to them we’ll always be the enemy! We’ve taunted them, disgraced, mocked and demeaned them… Not even a pathetic bunch of losers like Fairy Tail would have us…”

“Fiore is only one of many countries, Sting!” by now the Shadow Dragon Slayer sounds almost pleading. “We could go somewhere where our names hold no meaning and we could start over. This place has already stolen so many things from us; Jiemma has hurt both you and me so, so badly… We don’t owe him shit…”

Suddenly a shadow flits through Sting’s eyes, a fear-filled, terrible wraith that darkens the bright azure to a dull shade of midnight-blue, and even though he hurries to avert his gaze, he’s still too slow for Rogue to miss the quick flash of sorrow flying by.

“But that’s not all there is to it, am I right?” he inquires lowly. “Sting, talk to me! What’s the matter?”

For a moment nothing but silence heeds his quiet prying, then, however, the blond sucks in an eerily unsteady breath and whispers:

“What if… what if we actually find a guild willing to accept us… and they turn out to be just the same? Who tells us, that the way Jiemma runs Sabertooth isn’t common practice?”

Dark red eyes go wide in horror as Rogue starts to understand where his lover was coming from, but before he can do much of anything Sting has already clutched his hand almost bruisingly hard.

“Rogue… I… I finally figured out, how to get by in our guild, how to placate and avoid Jiemma and… and… his shit… I know the rules now and as long as we’re being careful, we’re comparatively safe… We have no idea, how another Guild Master may handle things… If they’re… if they were even remotely like him… if they took pleasure in… _that_ …”

A fine tremor starts running through his body and his voice cracks dangerously as he forces out a tuneless: “I couldn’t face this again… Anything but this, Rogue! I’m begging you…”

A sheer unbearable amount of grief seeps into Rogue’s expression, his throat tightens painfully as he wraps his arms around Sting, all the while his lover clings to him desperately.

A few moments pass as the White Dragon Slayer only trembles against him - silent, helpless and small - then a tiny whisper shudders through his chest:

“I’m scared… Please, Rogue, I… I can’t do this. I’m just too scared…”

Almost immediately he’s being pulled in even closer, finds careful hands running through his hair, while a gentle pair of lips hums soft soothing noises against his crown.

And even though a ceaseless string of “Shhh… hush… ‘ts fine… Don’t cry…”ghosts over his skin -the tune nothing but sweet, loving and so very, very cautious- he still senses a heart-broken, devastated defeat somewhere between slow, gentle caresses and quiet, tender words of comfort…

Sting tries to push it away; wants to shut out the nagging sensation threatening to overwhelm him, and he has almost pulled it off, when Rogue suddenly speaks up once again and all the warped defenses he tried to set up hastily come crashing down.

“Shhh, my love! Easy now, easy… We won’t be going anywhere…” and for the love of god – even though he really wants to – Rogue cannot suppress the heavy sigh tumbling from his numb lips as he accepts his fate.

If leaving the Guild came at such a high price, he’d rather shoulder the permanent pressure, the constant hiding and the all-encompassing fear; before adding another load of unbearable, crippling pain to the humongous, never-lessening burden Sting was already carrying along.

“Don’t worry… I’d never act against your will, remember? So, we’ll stick with Sabertooth, then…” Even though Rogue’s tune is soft and his hands keep on stroking the blond strands ceaselessly, Sting still catches the certain undercurrent of hopelessness, bereavement and defeat that lies dormant in the oppressive silence between his words.

Realization hits him like a brick; makes him shy away from his lover’s caressing hands; his soothing closeness and warmth with a pang of unaltered guilt; before he states hoarsely:

“I knew it…” His tired, worn out whisper ascends into the cold air around them, where it remains in abeyance above their heads like some kind of disembodied, yet fatal threat.

Sting recoils from Rogue’s touch and curls into a tight, trembling ball on the far end of the mattress, muttering:

“I knew I should have broken up and cut ties with you ages ago… This whole relationship was a mistake…”

And even though his voice is icy, full of loath and regret there is still a small choke; a tiny struggle to draw air in the way he speaks, that somewhat reveals his true feelings.

Still…

For a moment Rogue’s face turns as pale as November-mist; all blood suddenly rushing towards his stumbling heart, leaving his head eerily fuzzy and detached, while something soft and warm trickles down his cheeks…

Something that leaves the taste of ashes and salt on his lips, as Sting presses out a suffocated:

“I tried to tell you, that you deserved someone better… and I always knew that I couldn’t make you happy. Not for long… And now… Look at us… You’re miserable and I’m all messed up, weak and pathetic… And once again I’m only holding you back…”

“Sting…” Rogue is at a loss for words; completely run over by the fierce onslaught of self-loath and despair, and even though he’s only searching for the right words in his current state of helpless heart-ache and grief, the blond reads something completely different from his silence as he draws back even further.

“You should have listened to me…” he mumbles sadly, before shaking his head hard. “No… rather: I should have rejected you more firmly… So that by now you would have forgotten about me; living a happy life and all… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry….”

The tears are spilling freely now, and even though his speech becomes erratic and almost unintelligible from sobs, hiccups and chokes, Sting still carries on, while avoiding each and every token of comfort Rogue tries to offer.

“One thing… I just want you to promise me one thing…” he cries into the already damp fabric of his pillow. “Ask yourself tonight, if you’re truly happy right now… If this is what you wanted… and if you come up with a “no”… don’t wake me up. Just leave and don’t look back. Let me kiss you good-night one last time, and then take your chance and get the fuck out of this shit-hole… I’m too fucked up to fit in anywhere but here, but you’re too kind, too warm-hear…”

He doesn’t get any further, for suddenly a pair of lips silences his rambling with a firm, yet heart-felt, desperate kiss…

For a second Sting finds his breath snatched away, as he realizes, that Rogue has never kissed him like this before… It’s urgent, yet soft; claiming but endlessly devoted; sad and still so full of unwavering love…

The White Dragon Slayer tries to fight it for an instant, wants to withdraw and break the contact as soon as Rogue’s lips brush against his own, but for once his lover wouldn’t relent, wouldn’t back down; too grave was the message he needed to convey.

So when he finally releases Sting’s lips he fastens his hold around him and keeps him cradled against his chest, whispering: “Don’t you ever dare saying something like that again! We’ve been through this; time and again. I choose you! I choose you because I love you and even though our life is sometimes painful and hard, I’d make the same decision over and over again, just to keep you by my side. I’ll say it once more: I’m not going anywhere without you! And now I understand, why the prospect of leaving frightens you even more than remaining here… So we’ll stay in the guild, and we’ll find means to somehow get by; as always…”

His sole answer is a harsh, ragged sob as Sting admits defeat and stops struggling, his body suddenly heavy and weak in his lover’s arms.

“It’ll destroy you… “, he mumbles tunelessly, and it doesn’t sound like a question.

“I won’t allow it.” Rogue’s answer comes equally quiet, but with a fierce determination and an unspoken promise woven tightly into his words.

A few heart-beats pass where Sting only shakes his head subtly in disbelieve, but then his gaze meets steadfast blood-red eyes and maybe it’s the open expression of unstained, bone-deep trust and commitment, or maybe it’s the unswerving, ever-present stubbornness he finds swirling there; but something hidden in the endless waves of crimson that seem to swallow him whole, traverses right through the bottomless pit of fear and doubt; self-loath and shame…

… until the pitch-black abyss of anxiety and pain is suddenly flooded by the warm, gentle waves of  whole-hearted kindness and dedication.

And only when the calm currently spreading throughout each and every part of Sting’s body finally reaches his racing, trembling heart; a somewhat exhausted, yet sweet tranquility seeps into his quivering gaze.

Rogue watches the seemingly endless stream of feelings traverse through his lover’s unfocused, tear-brightened eyes, while he keeps on whispering gentle promises of safety and oaths of succor against his temple; his hands never tiring of trailing over the blonde’s back and shoulders, until – an eternity of tremors later – Sting closes his eyes with a small sigh and snuggles closer against him.

“Thank you…” he whispers. Once, twice a thousand times, until Rogue hushes him with another kiss; gentler this time, less heart-broken and desperate, but careful, reassuring and loving.

Sting eventually falls asleep to his touch, but even in slumber his body won’t let go of the tension, won’t completely unwind, so Rogue just keeps on stroking his lover in a feather light, cautious manner.

For a moment he focuses on Sting’s heart beating against his own, but tonight the sensation brings him no comfort – too struggling and stumbling its rhythm; too heavy and tired his own.

He’s exhausted beyond words, thus he simply waits for the darkness to claim him, but somehow, tonight sleep just won’t come...

 

Sting wakes from a nightmare with a start and a hoarse yelp, his breath fleeting and erratic, and only when the nauseating thundering in his chest has subsided, does he realize that he woke to an empty bed.

The sheets beside him are crooked and cold; the scent of incense and cedar still strong and heavy around him; but the suffocating silence of the room tells him that he’s alone.

For a moment he feels as if the ground was caving beneath him, ice cold dread spreads throughout his guts and his vision blurs.

He slumps back down, terrible shivers wrecking his form, while he’s trying his hardest to convince himself that this was for the best… That this was, what he actually wanted.

“I hope you find happiness out there…. I love you…” he chokes into the chilly darkness encasing him, and when nothing but silence answers his pleads, he whispers a broken, devastated:

“Please forget about me…”

 

But only the impassive, sallow face of the moon is there to hear his prayers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a monster....  
> For deciding to end the Chapter at this very moment, and for torturing both of them so, so much...  
> But in the end, only someone who'd gone through serious pain could become like those two were portrayed at the beginning of the GMG-arc...  
> Sting cocky, sadistic and repulsively egoistic; Rogue withdrawn, unapproachable and secretely miserable...  
> Someone safe them...
> 
> And someone safe you, my dearest readers, as you are constantly being tortured by my vile ideas...  
> The fact, that you are still sticking with me, still support me so very much, even after all those Chapters, makes me so incredibly happy, I don't even know where to start!
> 
> So, have a safe and blessed Samhain (Halloween) and take care!  
> Dearest greeting, TGA


End file.
